Ornamental

process of inspiration

  a few weeks ago, i received an email from one of my regular readers - with some thought provoking questions that have led, ultimately, to this post.  in the letter, she said "You don't have to answer this if you don't have time.  I'll wait patiently for you.  I have tried making things.   And for some reason they don't look right to me.  I'm not sure what that is about.  So, this is what I want to know:  Is there any part of the process I should plan, like colors and choice of items?  Or is it better to go with the flow--just pick up things that move me and figure how to incorporate?  Can you tell me what you would do if you were just beginning to create? I don't want to copy others. I want to find my own style.  Thank you."  i pondered for a while - wrote back an abbreviated response - which wasn't nearly enough of an explanation of how i operate, when making art.  last week the weather, i think i said, was off and on - very blustery with fits of rain, then sun, then rain again.  cold, warm, windy, warm, cold.  rain.  lots of rain.  a little snow, in the night.  a friend brought back some lovely acrylic leaf branches for me from her trip to lake tahoe, and i walked outside the next morning to snap a photograph of the light shining through both clouds and leaves, while wind blew and temperatures plummeted from warm to a chill that soaked to the bone.  i played with the image, as i can't help from doing these days, and loved the look the photograph conveyed.  it captured, i think, the late winter's indecision of which way to go.  of waiting.  of searching for sunny spots in the house where i could sit.  of watching clouds roll up and over the mountain across the way.  over this past weekend, on a quiet saturday afternoon, i looked at the photographs you see above, and walked into the studio to begin pulling out stones that might suggest a feeling of blue sky, that might suggest emotional responses that blue sky might bring:  hope.  peace.  calm.  security.  i have a basket of antique lace that i keep at hand right there in the studio, within grabbing reach when i am in the throes of creating jewelry or book work.  the basket is one of those creaky little straw and silk hinged lid things from long ago - small in size, octagonally shaped, well loved and worn, found in a wonderful antique shop somewhere in a rural community of wisconsin a few years ago.  the basket itself brings back a lot of pleasant memories; the lace, gathered for the past thirty years, has been added to with gifts from friends and makes me feel good just seeing the various textures of handmade trimmings all mixed together, like an old fashioned cotton and silk and linen stew.
 what you see there, something i'm trying NOT to do these days, is bits of findings and already-wired beads and buttons from two separate pieces of jewelry, two completely different projects that are not completed.  this is where i get myself into trouble - when i don't put things back at day's end that i did not use, when i don't clear the table so that i can have a fresh start the next morning.  (i'm making a mental note to walk in there when i'm done here and clear the little disorder that has begun to clutter the table.  small steps - but important ones, to me).  this time, though, i've enjoyed having the lace and ribbon left out, to perhaps carry from one project to the next; the lace reminds me of clouds, of course, even though i will not likely use it for the blustery blue sky piece that will be coming together this week.  at any rate, i thought of the photograph, with its one bit of blue sky showing from underneath all those rolling, grey and white clouds, and began pulling out the beads i thought would work for what i want to do.  african opals have a sweet, soft blue to them, and look beautiful with white pearls; blue and white, when combined,  always say blue sky to me.  and then, i began pulling out random bits and pieces that are still in the plastic craft box that i carried with me to colorado; i associate these special trinkets, pulled from stacks of trays and plates on that disastrous studio table of last late summer/early fall, with the lovely experience i had while working as a resident artist in the heart of the rocky mountains back in september.   from this jumble of stashed treasures, i pulled out what might work for a piece in which i speak of nature.  the resin-filled bezel is one i made back in 1995; it's lasted that long, through three separate moves, and i love the image of the cropped binoculars.  there is a cast sterling charm, the original piece made to my specifications from another jeweler friend so that i could have it cast into multiples and hammered with whatever words i choose to use (this piece?  and i'm chuckling here, this piece with the word "dream" was being drilled, back in the summer, when it flew out of my hand and into that black hole of a studio.  it surfaced when i cleaned to the core, in november).  the fine silver flower charm was made and given to me by another artist friend, a few years ago, and the sterling button is one that i had cast from an antique one of mother of pearl.  i may use one or two of these pieces; i may not use a single thing.  it just depends on where my mood takes me when i get to the point of assembly.  what i want to focus on for this piece, though, is how i wished to spend my quiet pockets of time this past weekend, what few pockets there were to sit and work on something like this:  yesterday morning blossomed bright and sweet, a quiet time to sit with my cup of coffee and watch Sunday Morning on cbs.   this makes me think of daddy; we used to watch it together every sunday morning, without fail, whenever i was visiting.  i've been a little obsessed lately with the notion of taking time to embroider - something, anything - and know i'm serious when i actually enjoy pulling out needle and thread to finally repair a torn spot in a favorite flannel camp blanket.  there were the inevitable weekend chores to do - laundry, house cleaning, cooking, walking with walter - but for a couple of hours it was a lovely respite to sit in my ancient worn flannel pajamas with clouds on them and embroider some old linen with sky blue thread.    i want to do another few of the jewelry designs i made some years back, incorporating antique mother of pearl buckles (this, a gift from a beloved friend).  it is no easy feat; as i drill and cut under water, i'm always afraid that the thing, old and fragile, will shatter.  taking the central bar out, though, creates a beautiful iridescent frame for fabric and embroidery.  looking at the completed embroidery in this morning light, however, magnified for all to see here on this bigger screen, i'm wincing at my irregular stitching, with spaces of linen unintentionally showing between those tiny little threads of blue.  no matter.  when i look at the work, i remember the time i spent beside the inadequate light of my reading lamp, watching a repeat of downton abbey's season finale, i remember weeping a little over the show's cherished characters while curled up on my linen sofa and feeling peaceful and serene.  i remember all of this, the pleasant act of pulling thread with a needle up through old linen, then sending it back down under again, and up and down, over and around.  i remember the dark of the night when it was completed, the cramping in my hands, the feeling of hard work and of bliss.  i remember all of this.  and now, begins the artistic license of assemblage.  do i use the little binoculars piece, which would be lovely with the brown of blooming branches?  there will be one of my sterling birds, this much i know, and the blue of african opal, the white of small freshwater pearls, perhaps the clear blue of peruvian topaz.  there are some treasured white heishi pearls as well, a sweet gift from another artist friend, that when stacked together remind me of wispy cirrus clouds.  i will use the word i ran across in a little bag of saved text snippets there on the studio table - "remembered" - attached to the soft white antique leather from a very old opera glove.  remembered, a word that seemed appropriate because we all have special days when all seemed good, when the sky was blue and the wind was just right and everything was just, in our own world.  i just don't know how this piece will unfold, after this; that is one of the joys of spontaneous creation, and that is how i always operate - no plan, no vision of a piece from start to completion - only the emotions that i've felt when seeing a bit of nature dancing before my eyes, only the way i want my work to speak to those who hold it, who wear it, who understand why i am compelled to connect my art with the natural world that gently, quietly surrounds me.  that is how my life unfolds.  that is how i live.  and now, i see a spot of blue peeking out from behind the morning's clouds, and there is a pup who would dearly love a walk through the waiting woods....xo  (thank you, my friend, for asking these questions, for prompting me these weeks later to write down how i've worked and fumbled my way through a particular design.  xxx)

thoughts

  my mind has been flying all over the map this morning and afternoon - i'm not sure why, am not sure what i can do to reel it in and bring back into a grounded place for the rest of this day.  it could be the weather - blustery, indecisive, raining one minute, milky sunshine the next, all the while with great gusts of wind that make the rain drops come in at horizontal angles, that make the clouds roll in and out up over the mountain ridge across the road with frequency and speed.  i'm so very fortunate that i've been able to carve out a little living right here in the heart of my home, where i am my own manager - a good thing, and on days like this, a bad one, too.  there is no true focus in work right now, at least not one that i can claim; there are all sorts of ideas for new designs percolating, all manner of things i'd like to begin to incorporate into the things i make.  but where to start?  just behind the laptop screen here on the table before the windows rests a cluttered collection of items that were gathered one at a time in the course of this week:  one of my favorite heart rocks, flat on top and flatter on bottom, very very thick and very full of memories (found years and years and years ago on mother's day when hiking with my boys in a favorite spot, called graveyard fields, at the edge of the stream that winds through the meadow there); the worn branch i found at the side of the river a couple of weeks ago; jewelry i've completed, still wrapped 'round the branch, still on top of the table at the window here; the little journal from yesteryear, waiting and waiting for a new page to begin.  i look at the photograph i absentmindly snapped this morning while waiting for motivation to strike (has it already struck?  am i thick in the midst of something beginning, here?) and am drawn, so strongly drawn, to the things held within one very small, square photographic image:  worn wood.  worn rock, in the shape of a heart.  antique buttons in mother of pearls, and buttons i've had cast from antique buttons, in a tarnished sterling silver; old ribbons, hand dyed, tattered and frayed, threadbare.  the word threadbare.  the worn covers of a book.  old thread.  red thread.  antique sew-ons with mirrored backs in the shapes of flowers.  my handwriting on a tea-stained metal rimmed tag.  my stitches in fabric, holding antique metallic seed beads, my stitches knotted and tangled, a corner of a book worn and tattered as well.  maybe somehow all of these things will pull together into some sort of artistic vision that seems new to me, that seems fresh and lovely and channeled from magic and wisdom and from somewhere deep within that begins, like spring water, somewhere deep deep deep inside where the heart taps the visions, where the things bubble forth, and rise up to the surface, and out into the light, for me to see.  for me to summon, to harness, to make and then to set free...xo

to treat one's self

   on a blustery pre-spring day, i list a few notes on how to chase away the lingering winter blues:  wander into the woods at the edge of the house and pick the daffodils that are struggling to bloom.  bring them inside.  place in a random, unexpected place.  take photos.  do not forget to place the buds back in a lovely favorite vase with water, in the sun.   throw caution to the wind and buy a sweet crewelwork pillow with a bird on it for the bed

go to lovely asheville with a cherished best friend on a sunny free day, stumble upon a beloved n.c. potter's mugs with birds on them, throw even more caution to the wind and purchase not one, but two - then fix hot spiced cinnamon tea for two (with a biscuit for walter) the minute we walk back through the door at day's end  after reading this friend's post about journaling, i have vowed to her and to myself to pull out a beloved, abandoned hand made journal from new year's 2006 and begin work in it anew.   i had spent all new year's eve, both day and evening, embroidering the tiny antique beads onto muslin that i had stamped with words, after assembling the book from scratch with an antique speller cover and ledger pages; three weeks later, my brother died, and i hadn't the heart to continue with it.  now, i shall.  at least, i have declared that i shall, and that is a start.
these pages are too treasured to leave abandoned.  i worked too hard to leave the rest of the book undone.
and so, i am listening to myself this late winter afternoon.  i'm paying attention to the need to reconnect with myself, with the book artist that i used to be.  that i still am, deep inside.  that i'll become, with fervor, once again.  i want to write more hand written letters, as well.  last night i wrote a two page letter on vintage onion skin paper to my sister in alabama, simply sharing memories and declaring my sisterly love.  it was with pride that i walked down to the mail box this morning and tucked the stamped envelope inside as a little rain began to fall.  i owe my dear new zealand sis a promised handwritten letter as well, and that comes next.  i want to take the time to stain white paper with tea.  i want to take the time to write by hand about nothing and everything.  and now, i am headed back into the studio, where i am relishing my hours there, sitting at the table that remains uncluttered and clear, pulling this and that out to use in my work, then at day's end putting this and that back up where it belongs, again.  i have draped the wrapped pieces of my artistry around a water-worn root or branch that i carted home from the river; when i saw it washed up on the pebble beach, it was my jewelry that i  envisioned adorning the weathered wood before i ever even picked it up and brought it home; i saw my jewelry quite at home there on its soft, smooth surface.  i saw my jewelry there.  xo 

bizzy stuff

i wanted to give a little excited nod to my close friend lesley riley (who happens to also be my creative coach, bless her heart); her brand new creative vision, The Red Thread Retreat, has an up and running website, including a space for registration... which opens on february 21.  participants are limited to 15, in a beautiful rural environment, so if you have the chance to sign up, don't tarry; i'm sure it will fill right away.  lesley, our friend claudine hellmuth, and i will all be teaching - one day per instructor - to all who are there.  it's in late october, near the potomac and shenandoah rivers in the state borders of west virginia and maryland, so i can only imagine how lovely a time that will be.  be sure to watch the sweet little video that lesley created for the website - i'm reminded of the nostalgic feeling of Amelie.  i'm very proud of lesley and all of the hard work that she has put into this wonderful endeavor!

 i also wanted to mention my excitement about returning to valley ridge art studio in wisconsin to teach this coming june.  my workshop - "All Wrapped Up" - filled immediately, and there were enough people on the waiting list that a second workshop is now being offered for june 11-13.  there is a limit of 15 students, and nine from the waiting list have already signed up - this leaves six more spots, for anyone who is interested (go here for info).  i'm absolutely thrilled, and honored, for the chance to teach this brand new "wrap" workshop twice at valley ridge! 

i'd love to see you there....xo

breathing out and in

  things that i love:  old.  lace.  iridescent stones.  little birds.  tender thoughts.  anything untechnological.  anything that is simple and quiet and pure. 

i will not let myself become angry when this computer connection goes away, and when it comes back, the post that i've been working on with dozens of links has completely disappeared.  deep breaths.  quiet thoughts.  still heart.  pleasantries.  yes.

so for today, then, only these images.  quiet ones.  lovely and sweet.  lovelies that trigger sweeter memories.  talismans for a midwinter afternoon of waiting.  watching.  listening.   such is late winter, when the world has stopped spinning long enough to breathe in, breathe out, breathe in a little more slowly.  out.  in.  yes.
 shhh....

much love xo

 baking in the oven,

  drying in the sun,

  words snipped from an ancient shakespeare tutorial,

  pieced back together

  on pieces of papery love xo

tender work

  the moon was, once again (this amazes me every month), very full last night.  full, and bright, and to this middle aged woman who is sleeping fitfully these nights, not so welcome when its light spills down through the western window just above my head at 3am.  i love the light of the moon - who hasn't danced by its light? - but not when i wake up feeling that a flashlight is beaming right in my face.  i'm not bright enough to remember in the daytime to purchase a roll-up window blind, to install it before darkness falls again.   and yes, i know, how foolish it is to live where there are no curtains, where there are  no blinds (like a blog, without its filters, i'm smiling at this); but by the time i make it back to the bedroom, it is late, i am in flannel pajamas and reading in bed, high on this quiet hill. 

anyway.

last night i had the bright idea to hang a lovely vintage crocheted tablecloth that was a christmas gift from a sweet friend.  doubled, it seemed solid enough; a blanket of clouds moved in, though, sometime in the night, and my brainstorm may have been pure folly, had the full snow moon been brightly shining.  but this morning, when i woke, i saw crocheted snow in lovely sepia.  and i am just imagining what i will pin to it, later in the afternoon when another bright idea has been completed.  we shall see.

little glimpses

  winter, firefly road.  a  little bit of sunshine purchased last week in asheville (tulips are my all time favorites) and moved around the house to suit my moods.  here, they rest just inside the front door - a place i rarely ever show here because the table is forever piled high with mail, gloves, keys, wallet, more mail, photographs, things to be carried downstairs to the basement.  this weekend i puttered with a dust cloth and lemon oil, and it felt good.  within the tiny drawers are hundreds and hundreds of antique mother of pearl buttons, a few buckles in there as well...  mister nut, from the river.  hilarious, i think.  he'll be tucked into a box to send to my son robin in the high country of colorado, because i think that it looks like the abominable snowman, really.  i wonder what the squirrel thought of its artwork, afterwards.
 roots at the river, just beside the trail.  walter and i walk down and then back up these roots, like steps, every time we head from the car towards the river, then back up when it is time to head back home again.  we'll be heading there momentarily:  both of his tags fell off sometime yesterday, and i have a feeling they are on the banks of the river.  i'm not happy about this.

the tags could be here, as well, on the trail that leads from my back yard on through the woods and beyond.  every afternoon around 5:30 or so, we head to this trail and i throw sticks down into the woods for walter to find, to fetch.  he loves this game.  maybe those tags are there, somewhere.  this shall be a challenge, a treasure hunt.  wish me luck.
last night's handiwork (please don't laugh!).  roy was very proud of his christmas gift to me this year, a vintage 1940's christmas tablecloth that he found in a retro shop in very hip downtown wilmington.  it was my intention over new year's to embroider his name and the date within the border; the tablecloth sat, folded, on the table beside the front door until sunday, when i relegated it to the arm of the sofa as a reminder.  poor lighting, insufficient marker for the fabric, a pitiful embroidery hoop from the thrift store all made that lettering go wonky.  it matters not.  i'll love that it is there, for every year to come.  as i told a friend who was belatedly working on christmas ornaments after her shoulders are now thankfully on the mend, "christmas in february".  why ever not?  a notion that came into being, that has now taken wing to another loving home... 


shades of things to come...
now, off to the river, so we can hunt for more treasure, so i can get back home and dive back into treasures that await me in the tidy studio....

fresh air

  two hours to spend at the river on a milky-sunny midwinter afternoon.  what to do with my pocket of time, then?  rain has been frequent - feeling like it is raining every other day here, or more often than that - and the water levels along the river banks have been high.  this means piles of sticks to dig through.  i love doing this, love sorting through and finding the straight and sturdy sticks that have been decorated by beavers stripping the surfaces of bark...  such a lovely pattern.  i carry them in a bundle the whole way back to the car.  once back home, i tie them with a small bit of velvet ribbon sent all the way from finland, ribbon the color of tree bark in winter light.  maybe i'll leave them standing in the corner where i stood them on end beside a table lamp; maybe i will hang them above a favorite painting, i know just the one.  maybe i will drill holes in them and hang them with pearls, like rain or ice.   maybe i'll dangle jewelry from them, to photograph, to display.  whatever the case, i'll look at them and always remember the quiet two hours at the edge of the river, spent searching for heart rock valentines, searching for patterns in sticks, being quiet, seeing no one, loving the time there alone in the winter milky grey light with my pup.

shadows in the light

  saturday afternoon seemed especially long - longer than usual for a midwinter day.  just before the sun sank down behind the mountains here on firefly road, walter and i piled into the car and drove up to an undeveloped development (i know) at the very end and top of the road, where the views always manage to take my breath away.  no one else is ever there - not a single house, nor car, nor other human being.  it can be a little scary, that way - but lovely, too.
this really is the view from there; my house is nestled down the way somewhere.   what a lovely world this can be, when seen in the right light.  my son calls this the magic hour - he, who works with photographs and film.  i love that technical name for this light, all golden and soft.  it makes everything seem like, for that moment anyway, every little thing will be okay.
walter got to run around without a leash, i got to stand and stare and stare a little more; when it looked like the sun was getting ready to dip, we began slowly heading back down to where i had parked the car; shadows were long, the light was the color of honey.
it was a sweet few minutes, time spent hovering there with just walter and me, without a single noise other than the wind in the trees and the calling of overhead crows.  welcome to my natural world, the one that you don't normally see.  i love sharing it with you.  i love opening the door to this, so you can take a peek inside and maybe sense a little of its pure and gentle beauty too.

tokens of affection

  new pendants photographed with panasonic DMC - FZ35, sent to my email on the iPhone, processed again via ScratchCam, then 100 Cameras, then sent back to my laptop and tweaked in photoshop with bumped up contrast, gaussian blur, reduced hue, bumped back saturation, cropped.

and yes, the new line of pendants - tokens of love and affection - are now available in my etsy shop, here

thank you

  photo of gathered rainwater taken this morning along the river trail with my iPhone - app used is ScratchCam, sent to my laptop and further edited with photoshop (changed contrast, lighting, saturation, hue, focus, cropped, resized)  the process is winding, the end result is different every time.

i wanted to write a little thank you this morning to each and every one of you who took the time to write a comment about my "novella", as one reader called it (i love that!) that i posted yesterday.  i'm not sure where that all came from - but it did bubble up from somewhere, and it had been a rough night of sketchy off and on sleep, it was a difficult morning getting out of bed when the persistent rainy weather has made these bones ache more than usual.  all of that paved a mental road that led to the post i wrote yesterday, which you have to admit is unusual for me - the venting, the complaining.  i do like to keep things pleasant and peaceful here, as much as i can.  i am human, i do have emotions, and i feel things very deeply.  i am the author of this blog, this place you can come and read what i share if you like.  and if you don't like what i have to say, if it rubs you so rawly that you feel a need to write and say that you won't be back - two of you said this, if you are still reading - then, by all means, go find another place where you will feel rewarded and welcome.  i don't keep this blog as a place where i expect everyone to write and tell me how wonderful they may think i am; that's a very saccharine and artificial approach to life that repels me as much as it ought to repel you.  i like to keep things open and authentic here, which means that sometimes i will out of nowhere write about feelings that are not all rosy and sweetness and fluff.

i don't know - maybe i need to pull that post, maybe i ought to close the comment section.  there are naysayers, clearly, who do come here to read - to make themselves feel better, unless of course i've touched a nerve and triggered a response that makes them leave a comment for the very first (and last) time.  but if i pulled the previous post, if i closed the comment link, i don't think it would be in the spirit of what i strive in this life to be.  i've always been up front with how i feel, and there have been many in my personal life who've suffered the consequences.  i am not easy.  i am not compliant.  i am who i am, what i am, and that is sometimes difficult for those in close proximity.  you out there who are reading this, you who come here to see the photos, to read the words, to view the artwork, will sometimes get a mixed bag of contents.  most of you will appreciate the ebb and the flow.  some of you will not.

blogs are funny things.  ten years ago, i'd never heard of one.  never did i dream that i'd be making so public much of what i'd kept so private, in the past.  i live a quiet life, doing what i feel is the right thing to do.  placing myself in a fish bowl for all to see, for all to accept or to reject, is something that would have felt completely foreign in the years i lived without a computer, when i functioned with the telephone and the postal service serving as my only means with which to communicate.  these days, i still live a quiet life, i still work alone and live alone and spend my time making artwork that i continue to sell for a living.  but in the past twelve years, i've become more of a public person through publications, through teaching, and now, through this blog.  i have to try to maintain that fragile balance of public and private, i must walk the thin line that divides my life here at home and the self that is thrown out there for anyone to view, to read, to judge, to accept, to spurn.  it is your choice.  i'm ever grateful that you continue to come back here to read, that you let me know you are there, that i have a loyal following, that i am able to work from home, to write about it, to share with you my ups and my downs without (usually) having to defend myself for being sometimes a little too open with how i might be feeling on a difficult day.

i've heard from so many of you in the last twenty four hours.... i've received private emails from those who wrote about the photographs, each of them very supportive and deeply appreciative for what i do here.  their letters were understanding and grateful, and they will keep coming back to visit here.  i am more grateful than i can say that they each took the time to write.  as for those few of you whose exposed nerves i seem to have jabbed, i truly hope that you'll be able to find the solace you seek, wherever life will take you.  and i hope that somewhere along the way, you were able to find a little peace here.  maybe a little.  i do wish you well.

conflicted

i've been writing this blog for over six years.  six years!  it's hard for me to believe.  i've openly shared with readers my ups and downs, my artwork, my raging insecurities, my love of nature, my love of friends and family, and with all of that i share countless images that take me a great amount of time to post.  when i take a photograph - and i often take many photographs of one thing to reach the final "one" that i like - there is a process that consumes hours of my time.  the same goes for listing a piece of jewelry:  i struggle to take photos from a variety of angles, making sure to catch the light in a gemstone, an angle of a charm and how it dangles, the detail on a part that rests alongside the neck, the length of a piece and where it falls when worn, the color of ribbon, the mood and emotions that are so deeply woven and ensconced into each and every design.  after i've taken 20-30 photographs of one single piece, the editing begins.  this takes hours - literally, hours - of sitting here at the laptop and bumping up or down the lighting, changing and cropping the size of the photo, the contrast.  sometimes one tiny part of a necklace will be out of focus, and i sit and very finely focus on just that one small bit, making sure a word is popping out into view and catching one's attention.  sometimes there are flecks of dust, or an errant walter hair, that must be removed.  often lighting is horrid, as is the case throughout winter; i hurry to snap photos early in the morning before the winter sun sweeps straight into the window and spills across the desk, where it resides in stripes until the end of the short day, when it sinks without fanfare behind the western mountains.  if i'm trying to take any sort of jewelry or art photograph between sunrise and sunset, it is a matter of finding a spot where the sun is not direct (too harsh), yet where the light is bright enough to capture details without the image being blurred from too long an exposure.  yes, i have a light box.  yes, i hate the thing.  photographs of jewelry taken inside that box seem sterile and void of any emotion; too, i gave my tripod to my son robin because i never ever used it - until one desperate, dark afternoon when i realized i could use that box but needed the tripod i had given away.  life is so much like that for me:  i realize all too often, after purging and sending the bulk of things i'd not used in years, that there are times quite a few of those things pop into my head as something i'd like to once again incorporate into my art, into my life.  gone.  the antique measuring tape (which never ever surfaced, thank you very much says the dog with the bone), a canvas painting, some length of trim... for those things, i must learn to just let go.  but, for this - for the blog that takes so much of my time to write, to share?  what to do?  i spend hours and hours and hours writing and editing and uploading photographs, most times an entire morning and part of an afternoon.  five hours is not unusual.  and all of this, for readers, absolutely free.  i pay $150.00 for a years' worth of membership to typepad (double what i used to pay, two years ago, for the very same service.  go figure) because i like the little extra ability to tweak the design of my blog.  why?  i like to share my world with all of you.  i like to show what makes my heart ache with beauty, what excites me about creativity, what it feels like to be sad or elated, confused and angry or unabashedly joyful and all things in between.  i like, just as much, to hear back from the world that sits on the other side of this computer screen; i like to hear and receive feedback, i like to know there are those out there who get what i have to say, who appreciate it with depth and with truth and with deepest gratitude.  (i even like to know if and when you don't, as hard as it may be to read those words).  i don't get paid one dime to spend the time that i do on this blog.  no one forces me to sit here and write my heart away, and i'll be the first to admit that i ask for the loss of creative time away from the studio when i spend it sitting here writing and pecking away at this plastic keyboard.  peck, peck, peck.  delete, delete, tweak, upload, hit the post button and poof, there is my open heart in lights right there on any screen in the world that wants to find its way into this tiny world of little old nina bagley. 

whew.

rant.  this is, i am beginning to see, a rant.  i don't mean it to be, but i swear i don't feel like reading back over anything i've written, because it will once again be delete delete delete then a huge regret for hitting that "post" button in the end.  for sending my emotions out there for all to see.  i've gotten myself in trouble a couple of times that i can remember, and the backlash was horrid, acidic, and lasted quite a while.  i've learned not to mention politics here, or the particular brand or strength of my religious beliefs; i've learned not to mention conflict in the jewelry designing world (as micro small as this world happens to be, so small.  a little pond out in the middle of a vast rolling meadow as seen from out of space, that small), i've mostly learned to keep my mouth shut about anything other than my own emotions that involve no one else, about anything that creates any conflict at all.  i've tried to continue to share with you what makes me feel good about what i do - the design part of it, the inspiration behind a piece, the excitement about being "on a roll" with a new line of things, a new look.  i've tried to maintain a freshness here, although to me it often seems and feels as if what i'm doing is the same old thing, the same old words, the same old jewelry photographs over and over again.  a leaf with a beaded pattern of rain across its veiny surface.  a rock that is in the shape of a heart.  my open palm, holding something, anything.  my feeling of isolation, my gratitude for a quiet life.  the conflict that arises within that one sentence alone.  the trials and tribulations of owning a very spirited dog named walter (who challenges me every single day, who summons just as much love throughout every hour of every passing day).  the devastation of loss, of grief.  the dealing with that.  the forced, raw growth that comes from it.  the mixed package of being a single woman at the ripe age of 55 who lives out in the middle of no freaking where.  the parts where i tire of being the only one to walk up and down the stairs with that overloaded laundry basket (where is my laundry fairy when i need her?), to cook the dinners that i consume, to straighten the house.  the only one to walk up and down stairs loading the luggage into the car.  cleaning up the glass alone when burglary strikes.  the only one to pay the ever looming bills.  to bring in the money that pays all of those bills.  the only one to sit at this desk and bang away at the laptop keys as if it is a wise thing to do with my life, sitting here venting to the world.  when i take a bit of time and back away, whether it is to focus on much needed work that will bring in the necessary income to pay the rent, to pay the lingering dental bills, or whether it is because i simply want to spare you the numbness that comes from reading the same old watered down thing, it is a choice that i make to step away and not post for a few days, a couple of weeks.  and, inevitably, i begin to receive comments and emails asking where i am, asking what might be going on.  sometimes i wonder if the thoughts that i'm thinking as i walk along the river are thoughts that i am thinking directly for the ones who read this blog, rather than for myself. 

i've just in the last couple of days begun reading the journals of a much-loved writer/actor/artist named spalding gray who tragically passed away back in 2004 (sadly, he took his own life - in true spalding form, a dramatic death that involved jumping off a staten island ferry into freezing winter nyc harbor waters.  i'm still not done with my grieving over that one).  i had followed his work as quite the ardent fan; the films of his monologues Monster in a Box and Swimming to Cambodia were brilliant things that i owned in vhs form and watched over and over and over again.  i once even paid dearly for and owned a signed copy of one of his books that sadly went the way of broken relationships.  when visiting my favorite bookstore in all the world a few weeks back, i discovered that a copy of his journals is now out in beautiful hardback form, and snatched it up.  my winter reading is now fits and starts of spalding, who bares his confused and conflicted artist soul across his journal pages.  a lot of what he has said thus far rings so very true for me, in regards to posting a blog, in regards to much of how i feel; "accept yourself and move toward what you want to do.  there is nothing else in the world but this", says he, and i stop in my reading tracks and say hmm...  then i read a little more.  this is one of those books in which i find myself removing the cover so that it will not get any more creased than it was the day i brought it home, clutched to my chest, from the store.  "How forced i still am.  my whole mind is a running commentary on all that i do.  i can't turn off the comments... walking through central park the wind... the not too cold wind and the distinct shadows remind me of early spring, late winter (where the season is just ready to give itself over) i feel the wind in my face and i think i'll cry and i do and see...am aware of the way in which the first tear out of my left eye has caught and rainbowed the reflections of the afternoon sun".  see what i mean?

anyway.

back to writing a blog.  back to sharing my photographs, my writing, my artwork, my world.  it hurts a little, stupidly so, when i spend a lot of time writing one of my posts and then receive comments from readers who surface from silence to ask what camera app i'm using.  some of you have been reading this thing since its inception back in december of 2005; some of you i never hear from, but i know that you are there, reading in silence, from the corners, from the shadows.  i have one reader who posts a comment every single time i post - lovely words of encouragement and appreciation.  even though she is a friend (thanks, in large parts, to our frequent pen pal communication), and we are often in touch outside of this blog, she continues to post  comments because she is that sort of person - thoughtful, heartfelt, giving, real.  she doesn't write to ask about a technique.  she writes, unselfishly, to offer support and to let me know that she is there.  i'm always so grateful, for that.

there are times, like this morning, when i question the time that i invest in ornamental.  time spent writing and publishing these words could be time spent writing privately in a journal, or writing words for that book which refuses to surface... simply because by the time i'm done here, it is time to move on to the studio to make jewelry to sell.  after my morning walk (which i've skipped today), after writing a post, after working on photographs - whether for income or for here or for my own - there seems little time to devote to writing words for a book, when i don't know what to share, to write, to say.  i try to imagine my having something to offer in book form that hasn't been said before.  i try to do that here, as well, even when i meet myself coming again back 'round a bend in this road.  i like for my look to remain my own, for my writing style to remain mine as well.  yes, my work resembles what is out there, so much of it now.  yes, the photographs resemble one another, from each one to the next.  but they are mine.  i snap the photos, i use the apps, i transfer the photos to my laptop so that i can edit them further in photoshop.  i could tell you which apps i use - but after thinking about it, i grew perturbed that the prevailing gist of yesterday's comments towards the end were not about the writing or the content of the photos, but about which apps i use.  i realize i set myself up for this by posting what i did yesterday, by showing the original photographs then showing what i had done with them.  initially, in the evening as i cooked dinner, i wrote a couple of folks back to explain my process - but upon waking up this morning and sitting back from myself to observe my emotions, i realize it is something i really don't want to share.  does this mean i stop sharing the actual photographs here?  does it mean i don't post them at all?   i am quite the visual person, though, and the photographs serve as triggers and prompts for the very words that i write.  that's my process, here:  i capture an image, and tweak it a bit, then i write.  i post another photograph, write a little more.  and i think this is an approach, i know it is, that i use with my jewelry and art book work as well:  a component rests on my studio table, or is tucked away inside a little drawer.  i see it, i run across it while searching for something altogether different, and an idea is born.  i work with some gemstones that convey that emotion for me - a drop of rain represented by a crystal drop, a rainy day doldrum revealed in a remnant of silvery dark grey velvet.  a bundled bit of wrapped fabric and wire, and some stitches of embroidery thread convey time, and a very direct connection from the artist to her work:  taking the time to hand sew a few running stitches, or x's, into my pieces speaks volumes for the way i want my artwork to speak for itself.  there may be beads hidden on the flip side of ribbon, there are usually words on the back sides of pieces that will be seen only by the one who wears the work of art.  the words grow warm when worn next to the skin, and then become a part of that person who wears my ornaments.  i want my work to be the consummate expression of what and who i am, of how i reach out to the rest of the world.  and i do that with this blog, as well.  if i want to share with you what beads i've used, where i've found them, i'll tell you when i write about a piece.  if i want to pass along to you the apps i use for certain photographs, i'll tell you that, when the post is written.  if not, i guess it means i really don't feel like sharing that information, if i've not initially said it right up front.  i can't really say that the apps are the end-all results of what i show here, anyway; i take one app, play with it, then layer it with another, then carry that image over to my laptop where i bump up or down the lighting, the focus, the glow, the dirt and dust and specks.  it is a sometimes tedious process, but one that i relish, and it is one that i've mostly taught to myself, and a look that i'd rather not send on down the assembly line.  selfish, yes.  arrogant,perhaps.  but i'm being honest here, and for that i'll suffer, of this i am very sure.  it's happened before.  it'll happen again, if and when i publically air a stance i take, an opinion i hold.

i just want to remain true to myself, apart from whatever else i see out there, without being watered down by reflections of the artist and the person that i strive, on a moment-to-moment basis, to be.  this online world makes it oh so easy to have a "look" that then becomes a look for the next person, and the next; and then that person somewhere down the road claims a look as his or hers, calls a technique his or her own, proceeds to teach the class, writes the book, sell the work that he or she sends out into the world.  it all becomes homogenized - the art, the jewelry, the books, the work.  the apps, in particular, are certainly not mine to claim; i am not the one who developed them, who programmed them for anyone to purchase and use.  whatever i choose to do with them, the look that i strive to collectively and ultimately achieve, i hope will blend into a look that is still recognizable as - well, as my own. 

all of this makes me sad to write.  i've spent another morning trying to express myself, my dilemmas, my concerns, and can only imagine the repercussions, the ripples in the surface, that these words will invoke.  i don't do this very often - not anymore.  the price is too high.  apparently, i've earned a reputation in this particular art community as someone who speaks her mind at all costs.  i do try to remain open, though, and true.  it is not always an easy thing to do, when contemplating how much more pleasant things would be if i would just keep my irksome feelings to myself.

when i send these words - polite words, but firm - out into the vapor that exists beyond the windows that face the quiet wooded hills before me, i have to be willing to face the consequences of an inevitable reaction.  there will be words, and those words - the reactions - are far better than the silence that is so often what hovers, like wet wool or cotton. 

sigh.  at least i will know i've been heard.

 

gazing ball

  yes, it's a little blurred, and yes, i've touched it up a bit with an iPhone app.  who knew i'd be using that thing for imagery as much as i now do?  but i carry the phone, slender and light, along with me on our every morning walk, so it is all too easy to slip it out of my pocket, hit the camera tab, and take a photograph of something i'd not ordinarily be able to capture on film.  for the last few mornings, there've been several elk right next to the trail - right next to walter and me, in other words, or blocking our path.  these animals are huge, and quiet, and i'm not ever sure if i should try to skirt on past or turn and head back to the car.  so beautiful, are they, so big and so much a part of these deep, rich woods.
yesterday morning as we made our way back home along a quiet road that skirts through rolling pastures filled with grazing goats, the fog made the usually familiar vistas seem other worldly and foreign, bathed in milky pale light.  i rarely ever pass another car, and it was easy to come to a complete stop right there in the middle of the road, pull out the phone, and capture this new land to carry home with me.  from that image, i tinkered around and came up with this:
i look at this and think i might have stepped back to a time when there were no stripe in the road, when there was no asphalt at all.  it's easy to imagine this, anyway.  the fog was just as thick, even thicker, when we got to firefly road:
we've been walking this road a lot this month, since the rain has taken over and i don't want to spend 15 minutes driving one way just to have the rain come down the minute we step out of the car.  firefly is steep, though, deceptively so, and i do love to have the energy and the sounds of the river at our side.  the quiet where i live is tangible, something i can just about reach out and touch.  i think you can see that, just by looking at this milky photo taken on a foggy, milky day.  from that image, i went to this:  and also to this:  and upon pulling into my drive, i captured this: which transformed into this and then to this.  it's almost like looking into a gazing ball, or down a well that reflects an image in the water of the sky, and of yourself looking down into that world that is of something else, that is purely of reflection and contemplation.  and writing this brings to mind a passage from the beloved novel Cold Mountain, (set as the crow flies perhaps 25 miles from here) where ada is instructed to lie down and gaze backwards into a well to see what her future would bring.  it brought love, and loss, and life.  that's what i see when i look at the photo of my driveway, above.  i see all of those things, in that light.  and today, i take the emotions that i've strained through threadbare cheesecloth into memory, and i work with what remains:  the light, the love, the loss, the life.  that's what i do, as i work quietly away on a winter day, in pale light that is filtered, in light that is not of this world of the here and the now:  i work with the memories of light, and life.  xo

red thread haiku

  you'll remember my post i wrote a couple of weeks ago in which i mentioned a ball of red yarn - walking through the woods and leaving a trail.  i was tempted - believe me, i couldn't wait to go get some red yarn and wind it through the rhododendron, and along the edge of the river.  i started worrying, though, about some poor animal trying to eat the string - and worry won out in the end.  a red thread nest? now, that would be a stunning find and an incredible work of art for some little bird to execute.   i've settled, instead, on making ornaments as valentines for nature.  picture tying a red silk ribbon onto a branch at eye level, just next to a trail that is frequented by you and by others who are strangers.  imagine coming upon something like this out in the woods - a bit of metal dangling and swaying in the breeze - words that draw you in - simple words - a simple haiku.  picture the little quartz drop glittering in the sun, like a bit of lingering rain after the storm has passed.  i love this notion.  i love that you could write your own haiku across the back with a sharpie pen, and love that the copper will tarnish with age and with time.  i love that you could rub the back with a bit of fine steel wool to remove the old haiku, to replace the words with the changing seasons.  i love that the red silk, symbolizing the common thread that eternally connects us all, will eventually fade in the sun, in the rain, in the snow - but oh how soft, like a whisper, it will be....

i'm calling this my red thread haiku project.  there are a few of the ornamental poetry pieces for sell over in my etsy shop - each bearing an original haiku that i've hand engraved.  no haiku is the same; i compose them at the moment that they are inscribed across the copper.  i'd love to see what others choose to scrawl across the backs of the one or ones that they purchase; i'd love to have haiku appear here that folks have shared.  they are such simple, easy little bits of beauty to write - focused on nature, how could they be anything but beautiful? 

red ribbon flutters  

crimson bright against the woods  

cardinal loves this...

 

i'm very excited and pleased to share with you, as well, some news about an upcoming retreat i mentioned in an earlier post - one that is very much in keeping with that wonderful concept of red thread.  my good friend and creative coach lesley riley is hosting the red thread retreat, and i will be there too, along with fellow artist and pal claudine hellmuth; classes will be intimate, in a beautiful setting along the potomac river, three classes in three days.  lesley will be revealing more information in the weeks to come... xo

(for more reading on the red thread, you can visit here.) 

bones

  on this gloomy, chilly january day, i've been conversing via email back and forth with a fellow artist i've yet to meet in person, but with whom i share similar veins in this life we both walk.  she is a reader of this blog, a collector of my jewelry pieces, and - i've now discovered - is also a very talented and fine artist (painter) herself.  bouncing ideas back and forth as we've done today, i've gone back to look at photographs i took earlier this month of an artist book i created back in july 2005 - a self portrait collaboration which involved art books we'd begun circulating back and forth across the country amongst 25 mixed media artists.  as you can imagine, the project bogged down, as anything involving that many people, that many artists, - is bound to do along the way; but finally one easter weekend several years ago, my book quite suddenly and with no announcement came home to me at last.  i don't have a proper way to display my many art books; my mother has a lovely glass-doored antique piece with lots of shelves and light, and i'm hoping one day this will be mine to use as a home for the books i've created throughout the years.  i miss that part of my creativity, and want to begin making things along these lines again when i have enough space to spread out and let loose with artistic abandon.  as things are now, my little studio, while remaining tidy, is cramped and tight and limited in scope and possibilities. when i look at the cover of this book - one i based on the human hand, and called "Hand Book", one for which i had all those artists feature their own hand as the base for their pages of art, and i can easily see a continuing thread of design that carries onward today in the jewelry pieces i create.   here on this book, made the summer that i moved out here seven years ago,  i see the snippets of old barkcloth, the sticks wrapped in various ribbons and threads.  i see the hand etched ivory piano key, the layered mica, the image of my hand, the rock in the shape of a heart.  i see resin, and embroidery thread, and in all of these things i clearly see my soul, ever evolving but staying the same in the epicenter of it all.  i don't know if this makes any sense at all to say this, but i look at my artwork of things long past and feel a pining for the person that i was at that time, for the sense of self that still felt a little bit ahead of who i had been, a little behind the person i was yet to become.  and i know as i write this that i'll be looking back on what i do now, five and ten years from this time, and will feel the very same poignancy that i'm feeling today for myself, for my heart, for my hands and emotions and art.  i stood in front of the bathroom mirror this morning, in light that seemed milky and bleak with this long winter lull, and spoke directly to myself when i pointed at my reflection and said "change your life.  change it.  now."  and that is what i'm doing as i continue to mull and simmer and percolate through the quiet of these long winter months, through the space that is january solitude, through the stretch that is now, now, and only now.  time seems so fleeting when i sit and glance back, but so sluggish and stagnant when i sit and then stand at the point of no return.  the word "hold" can mean so many things.  here, for this particular book, bound by waxed linen thread to the cover, it was meant to imply the grace of holding something close in the palm of one's hand.  away from here, it might mean something altogether different:  a pattern of stillness, of waiting to see what is on other side, through the window or door.  past that bend in the road.  up over that mountain.  behind the cupboard.  stored in a closet.  swept under the rug.  winter has that effect on me, always - a holding pattern, a time of being quiet and still and alone in this wild and solitary world i've inhabited these past many years.  hold.  a four letter word.  i've used a great many of those little words in my work - succinct, small, quiet, they are a short line of letters that hold a great punch.  there it is again, out of nowhere:  hold.  anyway - just thoughts here, just stream of consciousness thinking, which is what i do best.  a string of randomly reflected musings to share as an open ended book with all of you. later on this afternoon, on into tonight, and over the weekend, i'll be posting some new pieces of jewelry that i've worked on and labored over with great love this past week.  i look at these pieces, after looking at the artist book from seven years ago, and slowly, quietly grin: 
 i'm still here.  i was there, very strongly, i am here with just as much strength as before, i'll be here with more strength than ever a little farther down the road. 
ebb and flow, hope with wings.  a dance poem, a spirit of rain - it's all there inside of me, spilling out and over.  thank goodness that it continues to well up, to gather, to rain down, to flow. xo

(an added note,  upon re-reading what i've written:  yes, i am absolutely familiar with mary oliver's poem The Journey, have done art pages in journals based on her words.  for those of you who haven't had the pleasure of coming across this poem, i share it again with you here today:)

The Journey

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice --
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do --
determined to save
the only life you could save.

                             - Mary Oliver

winter animal

sunday afternoon, winter. 

a fine day, yet here i sit in a north- and - east facing darkened studio, trying to jump start a book into the beginnings of some sort of an existence. 

a quick burst of vacuuming ten minutes ago produced bits of things from a part of life years past:  torn pages of a paperback (The World According to Garp – created by two month old puppy walter, going on three years ago), bits of bent sterling wire, a beer bottle cap from a visiting son, a piece of worn river glass.  a small smooth stone, a tiny watch battery, a penny, a dime.  all of these oddities from a fuzzy living room corner summon memories and scents and emotions; the relics are everywhere, spilling over bookshelves, rolling in dust, hiding between a table leg and the wall.  why can’t i make myself begin?  but really – here, then, at least – i have begun.

a few seconds after flipping open the laptop, while waiting for programs to blossom across the screen, a faint flicker of movement far down on the road caught my eye.  there, barely – a  rusty brown coyote, trotting on up the steep road as if she knew exactly where she wanted to go.  a sunday afternoon winter coyote, loping.  there is no mistaking that lope.  alone, wild, but accustomed to an asphalt road.  now this makes me think of bit of vintage text that the vacuum missed again, all in caps:  “WINTER ANIMAL”.  so maybe, then, i’ve even got a title for this book that holds back, vaporous, an apparition wavering in the edges of what i am trying to see, to think, to do.

i’ve just spotted the coyote again.  a miracle, this chance to be here writing at my window, hidden in the shadows, barely catching a glimpse of this wild four legged creature before it is past the trees and around the bend, once again.  and now, a coyote memory – did i really see it?  twice?  and i can’t pull my eyes away from the window, back to the dormant computer screen.  fingers lie resting lightly on keyboard buttons.  i type this sentence as i watch the edge of the woods at the road, through the screen, through shadows of trees.  how many times have i missed seeing something beautiful in this life, because i was focused on something inside, on something inward, on anything other than what was right outside my window, through the glass, unseen?

winter animal.  it begins.  it continues.  it does not end.

(for some very interesting reading about animals and what their appearances in our lives can mean, go here...)

hello etsy

 finally... my little etsy shop has opened back up again, after the quiet christmas break.  go take a peek - i think you'll like what you see.  xo my shop can be reached by clicking here...

red thread

i'm sitting in a chair at the hair salon, laptop in lap, looking a whole lot like a character from the addams family.  you wouldn't want to see this; i don't want to see, and am doing my best to keep my head tucked down from the enormous mirror that takes up the wall directly in front of me.  i forgot my phone.  the house has new jewelry pieces scattered helter skelter across the desktop surface, a scarf is hanging off the edge, my camera resting to one side with lens uncapped.  there is a jelly roll pan of cooked rice on top of the stove, cooling; the plan is to make thai shrimp fried rice for dinner, when darkness falls.  we may, or may not get snow tonight; there has been nothing but rain for five long days.  how you folks in the great northwest get through so many months of rain, rain, rain, i do not know.  we've had much fog, a rainbow, lots of mud, very limited walks.  walter is bored.  i am out of sorts.  welcome to the very heart of winter.

i've been back in the studio, finally, tinkering away at things i've seen in the back of my mind while away.  this is a time of contemplating my next move, a queen waiting on the back of the chess board looking quietly out across the checkered squares.  in which direction do i move?  the forward one.  one step at a time.  go.  stop.  go.  i think that for right now, i'm working in shades of cream and white and sepia, a little bit of grey; i'm working with numbers, those old familiars we've all known since we were small.  inches.  centimeters.  bit by bit.  round and round.  a ball of twine, unrolled.  i'd love to carry a ball of red twine out into the woods, leaving a trail of thin red fiber everywhere i go.  i'd climb up into a many branched tree, loop the threads around the places i've sat, i'd climb back down and go around a rock, down to the water, back into the woods again, my path a narrow red line.  maybe i'd leave a jar with treasure in it, tucked into a hollow tree trunk; maybe i'd fashion a bracelet for some stranger, the one who is curious enough to follow the trail, to peek into the rabbit hole.  i might do that, someday. xo

stretching

  every morning when i wake, i can roll over to my right and see a lovely tree outside my southern window.  in autumn it is a riot of bold yellow color; in spring, soft froth of green; in winter, bare branches reaching upward to the sky.  this morning it was shrouded in fog, and thanks to the phone charging beside the bed, i was able to snap a quick photo to capture the quiet of a moment, soft and grey and white.  one photo can then go from that, to this: and then from that to this:   so many different shades of sepia and grey, colors that soften what would otherwise be a very ordinary day.  a lot of people i've known here - transplants from another place - grow deeply dissatisfied with living here when winter rolls around.  they grumble and talk of moving, and most of them do.  i cannot understand.  the seasons are powerful here in the mountains, and bring me great inspiration and clarity.  when winter settles in, i relish walking with walter on bare bone trails, i treasure the time to see the lay of the land for what it truly is without the added trimmings of green vines and leaves, come spring and into summer.  i used to detest winter, and the cold, until i moved out here to the middle nothing else and began watching the short, quiet days of january and february pass quickly beyond these southern windows.  something inside of me shifted when i finally decided to embrace that which does surround me outside of myself, to savor the beauty of the changes in our seasons.  it wasn't difficult to make this shift, once i chose to find the beauty rather than the pain.  i wish it were this simple, this easy with everything else that collides with all of us in life.

towards the end of last year, i made a big decision to take an online workshop, something that is new to this gal who lives out in the netherlands where computer connection is touchy at best, who has in the past not been able to view a video, to see large resolution photographs sent on to me.  i am a horrid student, anyway:  the few times that i've taken a workshop, i've laid unrealistic, enormous expectations on myself, am the last one in class to finish a project (or the only one to not finish what we had set out to do), for the ridiculous reason that i'd vainly assumed whatever i made would be the best i had ever done.  being an art instructor by trade did not help with this, in the least; in class, flanked by enthusiastic students on either side, i floundered and flopped as each of them sailed.  a busy teaching schedule prevented me from ever having time to take a class myself at the larger art retreats; lack of funds for something as luxurious as art lessons was another obstacle i had to navigate, to overcome.  my own "style" is something that has unfolded, developed, and evolved in the thirty or so years that i've been creating mixed media art; and trying to break free of my own rigid assumptions about what i'm supposed to do - in art, in life - is a self imposed mold that i'm trying with all of my might to hammer and crack open like a very hard shell.  sitting in a classroom, working on lessons is foreign to this fifty five year old artist/instructor; working on art as a lesson in progress is something i've not taken or made the time to do in a good ten years.  What I Hope to Be, 2002

this is a big year for change, i'm promising myself that, and one of those changes involves setting enough time and funds aside to grow artistically, even when i don't have the extra money to spend on something like art.  ( i want to grow in other ways, too, that always goes without saying; too often, though, i've set the art far back on a burner to grow lukewarm, even cold).  i'm not teaching nearly as much this year as i have in the past; and for the first time in the years that Artfest has been held in port townsend, i won't be heading out to teach.  this absolutely breaks my heart, as this is its final year, and i had been the one teacher who had never missed a year.  the one.  daddy's death in the middle of may, and his rapid decline in the months of winter and spring, prevented me from meeting workshop proposal deadlines that so quickly rolled around two weeks later, at the end of may.  not having to set aside the usual time in march/early april for workshop preparation, for the vendor sale, for the trip itself, is opening up another door and window for this coming spring.  and now i do have that time to take the workshop i've wanted to take for so long.  it begins today; it begins.  like any new student, i have the usual butterflies, the self doubts, the need to organize and set aside time in the day and evening to dedicate to something other than the usual household duties/errands/studio work.  how grand!
vines on a blue wall in an asheville parking lot, taken yesterday in the rain

by engaging myself in something completely beyond the borders of myself, by blending that border so that what i learn, what is new, what is scary but fresh, what is a change from old, from predictable, from what was then and needs to be now, then i hope i'll be able to focus even more closely on the small and everyday beauty, to see and recognize what's out there, to acknowledge the sacred and the grace of living each day of this earthly walk through life.  it is a short walk.  i want it to count, every step of the way.

  All Wrapped Up Workshop, Valley Ridge 2012

i will be teaching several times this year - once again, at art and soul in portland in october, in june at valley ridge art studio in wisconsin, and in later october on the east coast in an intimate workshop that is still in the planning stages (stay tuned for that!!).  too, i'll be returning to the Tin Shop Artist Studio in breckenridge, colorado for two beautiful weeks in august, and will be teaching some sort of day workshop there as well.  the teacher side of me still stands tall (all 5'2") and proud; the student continues to learn as i walk and listen and contemplate and see.  i hope you'll continue to walk through life alongside of ever-evolving me.

xo

settling back in

  i don't know about the rest of you, but i for one am immensely relieved and happy to bid old 2011 farewell.  it was not one of my favorite years, for all the reasons you'd imagine, and a few more sprinkled in amongst the obvious.  rough year.  sad, scary, frustrating.  the death of my father was monumental - something that came to us slowly, i think, in those months of his decline.  it was huge, and continues to affect us in such gigantic, knee-aching ways.  the holidays were of course very different for my family and me this time around - such a large gap there was in the space that daddy filled, there in the couple of chairs he always occupied while we all milled and fussed and fretted around him, the very center of our familial universe.  that's what he was, to us.  my mother is such an incredible trooper - ever stalwart, ever stoic, so unlike this emotional younger daughter of hers who blurts out whatever is on my mind at the moment the thought is born.  i never know to wait and let things mellow, i never know how to simply let things be.   the greatest gift to me on christmas day was what you see above:  yet another note from daddy that surfaced in the most unlikely of places.  that morning i was puttering around their house in alabama before the rest of the family arrived; robin was with me, for small pockets of time here and there, and he thankfully was able to sleep over on christmas eve so that he could wake up with mama and me on christmas morning (roy had to work on christmas day, and flew down the day after to spend a couple of days visiting back and forth between his dad's and grandparents' house and with us there at my mother's).  at some point in the late morning, in search of a tealight candle, i randomly opened a tiny drawer of the antique desk that graces my parents' living room.  there on top of a few other paper relics was a note to me from daddy, dated january 2009.  i don't remember his leaving it for me, as he was prone to do - we'd find notes on post-its, on scraps of brown paper bags, on laundry tickets... anything at close hand upon which he could scrawl a small note that declared his enormous love.  ever since he died last may, i've been finding those notes in the oddest of places - tucked inside an antique book that i've decided for no reason to pull down from a shelf and open; taped within the pages of one of the books that featured my artwork (daddy was my biggest fan, and kept a file box of all of those books, of every article that was written); tucked into an envelope in the stretchy side pocket of my worn suitcase.  the notes are gifts, appearing out of nowhere like that as if he were sending them to me for the very first time, when most i need to read his words again.  little miracles, i think of them - words from the past, breaking through to the present for a loving father's daughter to find and hold close to her heart.


so now, many days and remembrances later, i've come back home to the mountains once again.  after being away for over two weeks, it feels a little odd to be sitting alone here at my bank of windows looking out to the woods and the rolling horizon off to the west.  it's always difficult for me to find the rhythm of my own quiet days, once i've been away ensconced in holiday flurries, spending uninterrupted precious time with family, running errands on now-foreign streets, driving my mother's car, cooking in my mother's kitchen.  my own tiny cluttered cubbyhole of a kitchen feels like someone else's other than my own; it is a rental, so i guess that much is true.  it is a challenge, i realize now, to fold back into the version of myself that is the one who lives alone here in the mountains, far from anyone, remote, isolated, in utter solitude.  this year will bring some major changes, some that are long overdue.  what those changes are, i'll talk about at some point soon.  for now, i'm simply ruminating in my first post of 2012, declaring my word for the year.  it is a word of action, of change, of moving forward, of many positive things.  it came to me as clearly as any one word could, as i was driving the six hours' of ribboned road yesterday back from alabama to here:  manifest.  it rose up from a jumble of everything else, from memories of what has been, of what i want to be, of things that i wish for myself that i need to make a reality.  it is my word for twelve new months, and i will be putting it to good use for what i hope will be a very full year of tremendous transformation.  i'm asking all of you, each and every one, to help me stay on task with my goal of manifestation.  happy brand new year to you all; happy, shiny new everything. xo

someone wishes

 someone is looking at you. someone is wondering what is outside his grandmother's door. someone is looking for excitement, mischief, and the ever hopeful wish for a little conjured distraction. someone is sending you candy cane wishes for a warm and cozy holiday, wherever you are, wherever you go, wherever you stay.
 someone hopes you will get to be with those you love, someone hopes that you will hold tight in your heart the spirits and memories and love of those who've slipped away.  
be safe.  be kind.  be yourselves.  be loved, be cherished, be true.  these things, we wish and hope for you, and you, and you.

 xo

shop sale

  it's another rainy morning here on firefly road, and i'm trying to figure out a balance between cleaning/ working/ baking/ wrapping/ errand running, in no particular order.  so far i'm coming up awfully short:  i'm still in pajamas, the house is a wreck, nothing has been accomplished thus far except one fine cup of cappuccino and and a crinkly photograph or two.  i've decided to have a little sale for my ornamental readers over in my etsy shop; the sale is for 30% off of anything in the shop from now until sunday evening; come monday, the shop will be closed until after the new year.  it's time, i think, to focus instead on the things around the house that need to be done before heading back down to my mother's for the christmas holiday.  coupon code is NINAKRINGLE; there is a slot in the shopping cart that says something like "apply shop coupon code"; once you apply, the discount will appear.    shopping to me is a difficult task, something i really don't like to spend hours doing in a day; doing things online makes life simpler for this gal who lives out in the middle of nowhere and does not have the variety or selection at hand as do those who live in a more urban setting.  not to complain, believe me - from the one or two excursions i've had into city life these past few weeks, i do not envy the rush, the frenzy, the stress.  instead of the crowds and the cars and the shops, here, with a little help, is what i see outside of my windows today:

 

xo

                                                     

trimmings

                                                           xo

coming on christmas

  i live in a place so incredibly beautiful that sometimes i actually say out loud to none other than my own two ears, you live here.  yes you do.    it is a magical place throughout the year - the greens of spring and summer, the riotous amber/red/yellow colors of fall - but i think that the most beautiful time of all here must be in the throes of barren winter, when the bones of the land are more evident to the eyes, when the throngs of tourists have all gone home, when i can walk the river trail with walter and take my time poking around on pebble beaches without having to run into anyone other than the rare fly fisherman who stands out in the middle of frigid water.  i don't stand out in that water this time of year; it's nice to see someone else, though, quietly fishing the slow and easy and ballet-like way, waving a line out over the ripples and the stones, back and forth, back and forth, looping and swishing and finally landing on a ripply surface before the fisherman moves on down the middle of the river.  i don't mind seeing that, i don't mind the quiet of that.  not at all.  i hope they don't mind seeing a woman and her dog, walking by.

i can't stop myself from using my phone for a quick photograph, or from pushing a little button a few times to make what i've captured look like i have stepped back into a gentler time.  my own time is gentle, and i don't need a special feature to tell me that, but the ease is irresistable.  i cannot help myself.  this looks like how i feel:  quiet.  toned down.  reflective.  the winter girl, in quiet soft repose. when i come home from our walks at the river, a walk that takes us through the woods and down to an old log structure past a crooked fence, then back along the river's roots, back under the white pine trees, back to the car that carries us down beautiful roads again, i'm in a better place, always.  things are clearer, then.  they are.  i can't more highly recommend a walk to do that for one's soul.  and right now, those muted tones of oncoming winter are drawing me deeper into the gathered antique laces and trimmings of the studio baskets and drawers, into the blue colors that come seeping through when afternoon is quickly beginning to fade. 
i haven't had the inclination to pull out christmas decorations here, this year; i won't have anyone coming to firefly to celebrate the season, as the boys will be traveling briefly straight to alabama before winging their way back to jobs, to new lives they've carved out so many hundreds and thousands of miles away.  but, two nights ago i went down to the basement and pulled out my silly little silver tinsel tabletop tree, bunched some of that antique lace up under those shiny boughs for some sort of snowy skirt, and this morning i made for myself from scratch a cup of salted caramel latte.  why not?  it was a treat to sit with the little tree and watch the light slowly spread across the table as the sun peeked up above the eastern ridge.  

  (lovely cup by my friend julie whitmore)

i have in the last few days been working on the designs for a limited edition line of my watch fob clasp pendants - pretty little hand engraved sterling things in teal blue and cream, strung with a bit of antique tatting, rhinestones and faceted czech glass for sparkle, some soft cream batting on the back with dangling aged brass Xs and Os for good measure.  i think they make lovely ornaments for either one's neck or for a christmas tree, a door knob, tied to a bigger gift.  there are a number of them - they all say "love" - and when they're gone, they're gone.  picture them hooked to your favorite string of cut glass or pearls, or threaded onto a length of sepia tatting.  they'd look lovely connected to one of my watch fob chains, as well.
the watch fob at top swivels;  when these are worn, the pattern is different for front and for back - a nice little touch, i think.  i spent hours and hours trying to come up with the final touches, and the Xs and Os came to me yesterday afternoon at the river.  both the sterling floral discs (cast all the way back in 1996) and the brass letters are things that surfaced again when the studio was turned upside down and rightside up again.  i'll always remember how the final touches of these came about:  love with water, and walking, and walter, and sticks and stones and that beautiful, beautiful river.
so then, a blue christmas.  i am reminded here, in writing this, in looking over my photographs, of one of my favorite songs.  this time it is sung anew by a man for whom i've always felt a little patter.  listen to him singing, and look at the photograph below.  and then you'll know what is in my heart and in my memories today.  and your heart can break along with mine from all that tender beauty.
sigh.  xo

pendants are available for a limited time in my etsy shop, here.

at last

yesterday was a long, drawn out practice in frustration, a lesson for the grace of patience.  i spent the entire morning photographing eight or nine intricate pieces of jewelry, stopped at lunch to walk at the river with walter, resumed work at 1:30 then did not stop until well past 8pm.  once i had decided to begin listing the work in my etsy shop, the connection died.  completely.  nothing would work, and my poor mother - who calls every evening at 8:20 or so - had to quietly listen while i had a downward melt of poor poor me.  as if she didn't have enough worries of her own, without my unloading my own litany on her.  ah well.  thank you, friend, for talking me through a computer revamp first thing this morning, thank you for also being patient with my insecurities.  the life of an artist is not an easy one, to be sure.  the life of a single artist, eeking out an existence on her own, is that much more fraught with twists and bumps in the road.  someone whose husband just passed away wrote me that my life is beautiful, and i have to agree, as sorry for myself as i have felt at times:  i can slam down the laptop screen and walk out of here to head for the river, if i want to turn the world off for a bit, and i can crawl into bed at 8:30 with the end of a wonderful book, without having to worry about intruding on anyone else's evening agendas. 
 i am surrounded by beauty, i revel in its depths, i see what i see and am able to turn these visions into my own interpretations of the world that surrounds little old me, right here on firefly road.  amazing stuff, usually - but not when i am dependent on a quick computer connection, when i am trying to earn a living through a little shop that floats around out in the ethernet.  but, such is life.  this morning, the sun is brightly shining, the connection is back up and running, and i have places to go, miles to walk, jewelry to sell.  life is full, it always seems to be overflowing with goodness and oddness and everything in between.
life is a treasure, i say.  i don't know, maybe i'm deeply confused:  last night i was in the midst of great angst, spewing to my sweet mother over the phone that i am tired of always worrying, tired of being the only one to take care of business, tired of endlessly having to pay this bill or that (i promise, i apologized and said i knew she of all people would understand from her own experience).  now here i am this morning, sitting in cloud and star and blue sky patterned flannel before a sunny window, grateful for the simplest of things that being alive does bring:  the sighting of an enormous hawk perched high above the roaring river (or maybe an eagle, i don't know, the creature was huge), a cup of cinnamon spiced tea in late afternoon, a worn pebble in my pocket on the way back from our walk.  a call from my mother, like clockwork.  texts from sweet friends.  letters from treasured connections that were lost for years, for lifetimes past.  a dream of an enormous bouquet of colored helium balloons.  these things are all good, they are all what keep us going when swerves in the road are sharp and unexpected.  these things are the beauties that wait for us to recall at the end of the day, once darkness has fallen and we draw deep into ourselves. 
"i walk in my body like a queen" - words from the end of one of my all time favorite novels, and i hold those words deep in my heart.  maybe you do, as well;  i hope so, anyway. 

i'll begin listing these treasures this morning, as soon as i can get out of pajamas and into something fit for the rest of a queenly day.  old jeans will be just fine. 

editor's note:  all current pieces have now been listed in my shop - whew!

xo

ornamental garlands

  ah, to settle into a routine - how lovely that is, how sweet.  i know at other times in my life, those routines have seemed mundane, predictable, droll.  not now.  i am savoring the chance for long, uninterrupted days in my little studio, tinkering away from morning until well after dusk has fallen.  it comes so early, these winter days, and i was beginning to feel like someone sitting in a shop window, exposed for all to see.  granted, i live on a road where cars seldom pass, but having been the subject of multiple break ins and robberies, the exposure was a bit unsettling.  the recent solution?  a trip to asheville provided a vintage u.s. postal bag, secured to a dowel rod with binder's clips.  as day draws to a close, i can now very simply remove the rod and "curtain" from its daytime spot and move it over to cup hooks i've placed in the window.  the number 3 reminds me of a memorable four days spent with book artist nick bantock, of griffin and sabine fame, in the home of montreal studio owner carol segal.  we laughed, we laughed and laughed, we shared stories over breakfast tea, over dinners at restaurants on the cobbled streets of the old part of that town.  the number was designated as mine, and into my art journal he drew a page that centered on a great big 3.  memories.  that was a long, long time ago, another lifetime ago, and far - so far - away.  it has been raining and raining here on firefly road - and it feels like it surely must be raining wherever you are.  no?  but here, the bare tree branches are all laden with jewels, the fog rolls in and this cove seems like it is the only place on earth.  i walk into the studio earlier than usual, as walter and i are not able to venture out to the river for our daily walks, and i spend more time than i normally would on intricate pieces of jewelry that turn into sparkling tapestries.


 for hours i sit and twist wire into garden gate vines, i stitch love into velvet the color of ochre.  there is no sound here, other than the heavy rain.  there is no ticking of a clock.  there is no time to stop, there is no place to be other than right here, where at this very moment i very much want to be.

  i'm not to a point quiet yet where i can stop and begin the arduous task of photographing, editing, describing, and listing these newest pieces in my etsy shop.  it. is. an. unbelievable. amount. of. work, and this requires huge blocks of time and patience.  time, i have.  patience, i do not.  for now, it has been a pleasant thing to reach for my iPhone (yes, i finally was able to get one back in the summer) and snap things in the studio as they unfold.  i do not have to edit, i do not have to remove from the digital camera, i do not have to manually load into the computer.  i write this, and i shake my head - i never thought i would be one of those people, but here i am:  an iPhone phan.

for now, i'm going to share with you some images i've snapped of finished pieces.  i am loving this current vein of work - the revisiting of an older design (these first were made back in march of 2009), and i'm now making the wrap bracelets long enough to be worn as double chokers around the neck.  this came to me when i was down in alabama for thanksgiving:  i didn't pack any of my own jewelry to carry for the trip, but packed a couple of the new pieces to show my sister and my mother.  on thanksgiving morning, i felt like being adorned, and out came a couple of the bracelets, stacked one on top of the other with a sterling necklace i made with daddy's words.  i loved the look, and really love the layering of stories and so many memories - of course i do.  here's my abi, wearing one bracelet, doubled around her neck.  there is a bracelet (finally completed) that i worked on for two solid days; as i said earlier, i didn't know how to stop, i didn't want to stop, there was no buzzer going off to tell me that it was time to quit.  how rich it is, i think; how much like a treasure chest it is of collected memories and dreams.

  i'm not sure how to go about taking the time to photograph these things for the shop, with the low light of a very rainy day.  i'm not sure how to stop myself from making more and more and more, when there comes a time of necessity to put them up for sale, to lift them to the wind and say, off you go.  be gone.  give me a day, this afternoon or tomorrow, and it will happen; there they'll be, listed and all earnest and shimmery, like encrusted ornaments of olden times, lined up as garlands of an ancient and beautifully laden christmas tree.

                                                      xo

(ps.  seriously... i am really sad, so sad, about the measuring tape going off when it wasn't meant to be sent away.  would you please write me back, if you could?)

checking in, quietly

as is usually the case when i've been quiet, when i haven't posted for a bit, i've begun receiving a string of emails inquiring about my state of mind, of being.  i'm fine.  there are times when i'm hunkered down, when i don't feel like talking, when i might be so inspired and consequently  so busy with work that i don't want to stop and spend a good three hours working on a post.  still, i realize that it's an unselfish thing to check in, to share, to ponder and reflect.  this time of year is perfect for that, for the reflecting and the pondering.  cold weather has moved in; we had our first snow of the season yesterday, my first day back after spending a week in alabama with my mother, where temperatures until the last day hovered in the balmy 70's. 
i drove back on monday through torrential, relentless rain, well into the dark; it was good to walk back into a dry house that had remained intact while i was gone.  how sad it is that i now am forced to worry about this, every single time that i go away.  thanksgiving for us was a time of deep and tender poignancy this year; both of my boys had to stay where they were, due to vacation and income limitations, and this was our first major holiday without daddy there at our side.  my best friend julie made the trip with walter and me, which made things better for all of us, all the way around.  now that i'm back home, i'm eager to get back into that sweet little studio, all full of soft light and inspiration.  the snow looked lovely, falling outside the windows as i sat at the studio table for a full eight hours yesterday.  i even ate my lunch in there, so attached am i to this new space.  what is coming out of all of that upheaval and cleaning and purging is a remarkable new collection of work - a nod back to the wrap bracelets i began making a few years ago, with different twists this time around.  i'm obsessed, and this is good.  making things and strongly craving the time to spend making them encourages me more than i can say.  little drawers store the pared down remaining trinkets and findings that i chose to keep out of everything that i gave away (would the recipient, however, of the vintage measuring tape please get back to me, i sheepishly ask?  it wasn't meant to be sent on its way), and in those little compartments there are stories quietly waiting to be told.  my stories become your stories, again and again and again.  i feel as powerfully energized with what i'm making as i ever have - and after some twenty eight years of making jewelry and wearable art, this is an incredible thing.  i had no idea how deeply, how strongly i'd be affected by the act of sorting and deep cleaning what had become a true disaster in there; i had no idea that what would begin to take form afterwards would have such strength and conviction.  what an odd thing to say about an ornamental thing to wear, but honestly, it's true.  you'll see.  i'm not quite ready to show them individually, but as a collection there is a definite gravitational pull.  i learned that when i saw how my mother had recently chosen to display all of the pieces i've made for her throughout the years, together as a whole. to look at these pieces together in one (dim) photograph, i can see the progress my work has made from year to year.  and it is a bittersweet feeling to know that one day down the road these necklaces will all come back to me again.

so, for you who come to visit this place called ornamental, for all of you who've written to ask how life is treating me, here is a little sneak peek of what will be listed in my etsy shop a few days from now (patience, please, i want to actually finish the assorted designs that are swirling around in my head):

xo

nesting

  i've felt more quiet than usual, this week.  the weather has been overcast and makes daylight come later, evening fall faster.  everything has taken on a muffled, hazy look, and that's okay.  it's coming on winter, and i'm circling like an animal, i am beginning to slow down - thank goodness, i am finally to the point of slowing down, of nestling in for a while.  i had thought that once i was finished with The Studio Upheaval, once everything was out the door that needed to be, or in its right place (and already being forgotten, these right places), i'd be raring to sit down and tackle the next batch of ornamental inspiration.  it hasn't happened, thus far.  i'm feeling a little like the proverbial deer in headlights, frozen.  which way do i turn?  how to proceed?  but i'm not worried.  it is once again a quiet time for me, and for that i am forever thankful.  i find myself wandering into the studio, such a lovely little place it has become, and i am tweaking this storage or that, moving one tin box to set another in its spot, rearranging a divided drawer, writing labels for reminders so i will not too soon forget what goes here or there.  (the tintype above was a gift last year from a student and sweet friend, cori kindred.  can any of you guess why she thought of me when she saw it, why she purchased and gave it to me?)

having just unburdened myself with a tremendous amount of overflow (years' and years' worth), i did a ridiculous thing today:  there is a thrift store in the area that used to call me like sirens from the sea, and after nearly two years had passed, i parked the car at the curb and walked through the door.  i went in to see if i could find a blue one-piece jumpsuit vintage uniform for a christmas present for my son, but of course it wasn't there; i should have turned at that point and walked right back out that door.   of course, everything i bought has a good and solid purpose - vintage hooks and eyes, metallic trim, an old milk glass jar with a turquoise lid that will hold my tabletop glue;  an old tin box that is large enough to hold cans of spray paint and fuel, that will keep them in their designated spot with a little bit of rustic flair.  a wonderful old tea tin, waiting at the sink to be washed, waiting then to be filled again with loose cinnamon and orange market tea.
  gold metallic embroidered stars.  a remnant of an embroidered pillowcase (there were birds, white on white - how could i resist?).  one of those old plastic-drawered storage sets of tiny drawers that my father used to favor for errant nuts and bolts.  another tin for tea.  how could i resist?!  it is, i realize now, an addiction:  the search for what lies waiting on a shelf, hidden from the everyday eye, the find, the score.  but, this time i've brought these things home, i have put them in their place on shelves and sewing baskets and drawers, i have sworn i will not let the clutter take over again.  and by saying this to all of you, i am holding myself accountable.  do you hear?  i've struck a chord with countless readers, this much i know is true.  many of you wrote to say you were beginning this process of purging and cleaning yourselves, having read that i had declared war, had won the latest battle.  it does my heart good to hear that my own shortcomings, and the motivation to do something about them, has triggered a positive response in quite a few of you.  goodness prevails, i say.  let order win!  yesterday was another first:  teatime in the studio, actually IN the studio, at the studio table.  how novel!  and how wonderful as well.  there was room on that once-buried flat space for a tea tray, a beloved cup (a custom birthday gift from friend delila, made by another friend julie, whose lovely work i avidly collect) filled with cinnamon orange spice tea, my little square zero japan teapot (another gift, from friend kathy, who knows me oh! so well) that sits on a vintage hammered aluminum tray, bought years ago at another thrift store in beloved wisconsin.  do you know what a treat that was for me, to have tea under my little moon lights, to sit quietly and sip warm comfort, surrounded by peace and calm?  it was a first.  and i swear it will not be a last.  i wanted to close this post by giving my dear friend lesley riley a tremendous thank you for her incredible suggestion to sell boxes of things from my studio.  many of you have written to say what a marvelous idea i had, but let me assure you - it was not my idea, in the least.  lesley has been my good friend for nearly eleven years, ever since i taught my very first class so long, long, long ago.  she is still a good friend, and has now taken on the monumental task of being my creative coach.  so much of what she has to say is profound; she is helping me to realize that i'm still able to conquer fears, to accomplish major goals, to pursue big dreams.  and all of this, at the ripe age of 55.  i don't even know what else to say about this, except - goodness, lesley.  you were absolutely right on about this, and have been so right about so many other things.  you've brought sanity and calm back into my work life, and for that i will always be humbly and mightily grateful.  i can't wait to see what lies in store for me just down the road.  xo

i present to you...

  let me start off by saying how proud i am of myself.  the simple fact that you can actually see the (stained, weathered, 11 years' worth of wear and tear) table top - can see the surface, not some horrid pile of things on top of things - is a sweet and tender miracle.  if you knew me on a personal level at all, you'd know what an enormous accomplishment this one single thing is for me.  but, after two solid weeks (counting weekends) of full days spent clearing out that space, i've managed to do something for myself that brings deep, welling pride rising up out of my chest and spilling into my heart, then out onto this page for you to see.  remember how it looked fourteen days ago?  go here to have a look, if you don't recall; i just shuddered, actually shuddered, thinking back to how bad a state things for that little studio had become.  ready to see the new and improved?  i'll back up a bit.  i've been clearing out this one tiny, cramped room for such a long period of time that the change doesn't seem that obvious to me anymore.  but when i glance at the shelves to the left of my table - and see that there are no longer stacks of messy papers spilling out onto the table, when i see that the lamp is standing on its own rather than standing like a stork up in the middle of a pile of rubble, i see the progress i've made.  and within all those teeny tiny drawers, there is now order; what i had left unsorted for going on fifteen years is now either out of here and on its way to a new home or placed where i can actually get to it.  my hope is that i will be able to keep this order manageable, if i can only remember to straighten up at the end of the day.  that's easier said than done, when considering how much traveling i do - either out to the far reaches of this world to teach workshops, or to see my boys, or to visit with my mother down in alabama.  all that coming and going created layer upon layer of packing and unpacking; stacks were formed, mayhem was born.  and now?  oh, now - i can breathe again.  i actually like to walk in there and look around, i like to sit and ponder what comes next.  and that is enormous, my friends.  it is huge.  a new phase has finally begun.    i love what i see when i walk in there, when i sit down at that clean table to let things fall into place.  i have my mother's younger face there, pulled from a work of art i created for a workshop some ten or eleven years ago (hello, mama! i love this photograph of you all over again, and again); i love that i have moved closer to the work table a treasured gift from an artist friend, from just as many years back.  i remember when she gave it to me - how we had eaten tuna sandwiches with mama and the boys, how we had put potato chips inside our sandwiches and laughed as we crunched into them, sitting on the hotel room floor.  i cannot believe it's been that long.  so long.  i've moved and shifted things around and now have a new resting place for some of my beloved old art books, objects i made with love and have held on to for all this time, in spite of the fact that they are like magnets for thick dust.  they are from my heart, they were made with honest passion, they are like looking into a mirror for my naked soul.   i am not a furniture mover.  i've always said that there are two types of people:  those who are constantly rearranging their rooms, shoving their furniture from one part of the house to the next, and there are those who do not.  i've always been someone who moves into a house, who arranges things as she first settles in then becomes very cozy and contented with what is comfortably familiar.  standing in the middle of that tiny room, in my sweet little studio, i can now see more clearly into the nooks and the crannies of a magpie's place of creativity.  i recognize the alice in wonderland rubber stamp - my very first, purchased in the university district of seattle when i lived there back in the summer and fall of 1980.  i see the slabs of mica, found in the woods by the boys when first we moved to the mountains of north carolina in 1995.  i see the colored tin boxes, tarnished and rusty, i imagine how they squeak when i open their lids.  i've dusted them off, have stacked them again, have placed them with the old wooden cigar boxes because that seems the right thing to do.  what do they hold?  familiar things - tools - bits of sterling wire and chain - essential amber oils - old photographs.  comfort.  hope.  always hope.  it's there; all you have to do is open the top and there it is, spilling out.  what comes now, you might wonder, and i question that myself.  it is a time of reflection and of looking ahead, and i'm feeling a heightened sense of relief that this time of upheaval and change is more behind me than ahead.  both tables have been cleared - both of them! - and now i am ready for art work to commence again.  let it begin, i breathe out as a mantra; let all things new begin.  i am one mighty proud girl, looking out from within.  i am filled with a light that comes from giving myself some quiet breathing room; i am filled with the light of relief, and of hope for what lies ahead.   let all good things begin.  xo  ps:  a special thank you to my beloved friends lesley and julie; i thank you for your help and support!  xxoo


 

still here

  i'm still here, i really am.  sorry to be so quiet.  but after nearly two weeks of solid, very physical work in the studio - pulling out, putting into piles, sorting, sifting, boxing, shipping, pitching, culling, all of that - i'm seeing a bit of headway, but am nowhere near the point of stopping and getting back to making jewelry (and mixed media again, i've missed that so much).  i can't wait to be able to snap some "after" photographs - the here and the now - which aren't anywhere near here, just yet.  good lord.  i'm not sure why it is such a difficult thing for me to stay organized, once i've made some efforts to straighten and sort; things take over like kudzu, in that tiny little space where i create, and after a while i don't know where anything is, i am not able to find a single thing.  how sad.  but, goodness!  how rewarding all of this has been, to hear how pleased you are, those who've ordered boxes and have then taken the time to write and tell me what fun you are having discovering what i've sent on its way!  from one happy recipient:  "hi nina - not to sound too much like a nut ball.... but that box was great. it is like you knew exactly what i needed.  the metal pieces were perfect.   even words on a piece of silver , were for me. the heart with the poem.  the dictionary pages . the red silk came at a perfect time . i had just made a drawing of a moon i made into an indian chief with red feathers.   soon to be made out of fabric. i could go on and on ... what a treat.  it really makes one realize how good it is to past things on. i try to do that often but i need to do more.  again everything was perfect and wonderful.  if you are like me you are finding things you totally forgot you had.  that is the gift of cleaning."  from another:  "Hello Nina! I just wanted you to know that I received my shipment.  I am delighted with the treasures you sent! I'll make good and loving use of them.  Emptying the box was a little like visiting your blog...an intimate experience, and delightful. Thank you for all of it."  and another, "Hi Nina, I hope you are making good headway with your studio de-clutter and organization project.  I do not envy you the job but applaud anyone who takes on such an undertaking.  I received my big box o’goodies today and had a lovely half hour opening it up slowly and removing each item, looking it over, and placing it into a pile.  What pile, you ask?  I don’t know exactly, but each item was carefully placed in one of six piles.  I guess a mental health professional would be able to shed some insight into this odd behavior but I haven’t a clue.  What I do know for sure, you sent me a fabulous collection of inspiring items and I am going to have so much fun coming up with ways to use them up!  Thank you for sharing these treasures and for allowing me to “assist” you in your on-going project."  i love that term, "on-going project", so very appropo for what this is:  ongoing.  now, if only i could channel and keep the energy of organizational skills intact, on a daily basis, and remember at day's end to straighten up before i turn out the light.  today's work includes, i am thinking, a trip to asheville to the staples store there to purchase a couple of sets of decent filing cabinets (the sort that, unlike the one i have, will allow me to open the drawers with great ease, to allow actual use of the things) and some sort of surface to stretch across the cabinets for a new work table.  thanks to you, those who've ordered and paid for boxes, i can turn some of what you've sent and invest right back into an improvement for my work station.  there is no way that i'm going to let the dilapidated, sagging table from a long ago church rummage sale get filled and covered back up again.  stay posted. xo

goodbye, beautiful october

 
friendly little jack-o-lantern by my potter friend Julie Whitmore

i can't believe it is the last day of october.  what an incredibly beautiful month this one has been; the colors were more intense, and longer lasting (still, they linger) than i recall for years and years.  there is one tree that is glowing out in the late afternoon light; it is the color of mr. jack o lantern above, but ruffly like an amber petticoat laced up around the trunk of a stubborn tree.  i could try to show you the tree, but at this point - after i've spent 9o minutes writing a post that mysteriously again disappeared with a single slip of my little finger, i don't have the time to walk outside and try to capture that tree in its fading glory.  i've written to you of the upheaval of my studio, i've posted photos and words and now it has all gone away.  and i know what some of you will say - i know damned well that i should have hit the save button every now and then, but who thinks of that enough to stop and save?!  nevertheless - what i had was this photo below:   (and here i click on save)  and this one (click, save) because i wanted to share with you what i've got here in my hands after trading all of these boxes that you see stacked here in the house with a duct-taped box that my mailman pulled out of his car after loading all of my cartons into his car.  (insert here, "dear typepad, right now i do not like you".  right now i want to kick the computer and then i want to tell you again that i do not like you right now, typepad.  i do not like you at all".)  save.  when i opened that duct-taped box (what is it with boys and duct tape?), out fell dozens of wadded up newspaper insert pages, then an ecuador t shirt-wrapped long rectangle, which was this:  you'll have to click on the photograph to more fully appreciate the detail of his artwork, his attention to detail and authenticity to place.  i remember that tree.  i remember those bald faced mountains, one of which we ascended and descended again, in the course of a single day ("little green" is the central mountain in the distance, past a forest of pines through which we hiked in twilight to get back to our car).  with the artwork was a letter, and of course it made me cry (save, save, save):  "dear mom, i hope your birthday was as great as you deserve.  although we couldn't celebrate with you, i am so glad you, robin, and i had the time together that we did.  it was really good to be home in the fresh mountain air.  this picture was drawn as a memento to our trip to panthertown, and as a testament to all the mountains you have conquered in life.  if you look closely, you can see the arduous path that we took from salt gap (the vantage point), over little green, and through the valley.  here's to you, mom.  love, roy".  well.  i've done two things with beauty and grace in this life of which i am most assuredly aware, and they are called robin and roy.  in the midst of all this studio upheaval, i've managed to eek out some moments of grace and loveliness here and there, as you can see.  friday, alllll day long and into the night, it rained and blew and rained some more; when i woke saturday morning to sunlight that was just beginning to peek up over the eastern mountain ridge, walter and i walked out to find dozens of upturned leaves that had been dressed overnight with momentary jewels.  they shimmered and they glistened, and i had to turn right back around from sleepily stumbling out the door to go back in and grab my camera.  sometimes these photographs will work, and the light will shine and reflect as i want it to; most times the moment is lost.  i look at these smooth round orbs of morning light and wonder what goes on in each of those drops, before the sun comes to take them all away.  that blasted studio just continues to spew forth flotsam and jetsam from every drawer and shelf and corner of the place, no matter how much time i spend in there (all day, every day, for the past six days); how can one person gather so much of everything, then misplace it for years, thanks to a complete lack of organization?  i can't yet tell that anything has been removed - how is that possible?!  walter has not been happy in the least during this current undertaking; he walks around with a worried expression on that furry face of his, thinking - i guess - that i'm packing up to walk out and leave him behind once again.  note how little walking space there is in there, right now; note how much space that pup takes up, just to get his mother's attention. 
 i'm continuing to take orders for the things that i do not have the space to save anymore; the work table has yet to be sorted through, and there are drawers upon drawers of little trinkets and fripperies that wander through my world.  if any of you are still interested, please do contact me and let me know.  i'm going to continue shipping both larger sizes (medium, 30.00 plus 11.00 priority shipping, or large, 40.00 plus 15.00 shipping) and will also be packing quite a few of the small flat rate boxes (hardback book sized, roughly) with the smaller goodies - beads, findings, things like that - and selling them for 25.00 plus 5.50 shipping.  just let me know if you are still interested.  here's what one gal who ordered a box had to say:  "your package arrived today and I am pretty tickled at the goods you sent my way!  I hope that you were able to clean out your studio succcessfully! I know we are all very happy to have a little piece of you in our studios.  I love love love it. Thanks again Nina. You are always an inspiration."  i extend an enormous thank you to those of you who've placed orders, to those who have offered your warm encouragement.  it does mean a great deal, and the fact that i am both funding my bills with studio overflow, as well as recycling art supplies, makes me feel much better about my state of things, indeed.  that, and the love of my boys.  enough said.  xo 

incoming

  i am going to keep this very brief, as i have a really, really busy day (and weekend) ahead of me, sorting and culling and tossing and packing, taping and filing and addressing and then sending a massive stack of boxes off into the ever-world of this friendly little place called Ornamental.  when i showed my (new-ish to me, until the beginning of june) dentist yesterday the photograph of my upside down studio, then said i wanted to take his picture, he laughed and laughed.  look at his eyes in the photograph and you will see the crinkles that come from pure, unfiltered mirth.  this is a good thing, people, when i can go into that place and laugh.  believe me, i am no fan of dentists, i do not like having to shell out instant cash (i have no credit card) for a lot of pain.  i have a mouth full of baby teeth that never fell out, because there were lots of spots where no permanent teeth came in to take their place.  at 55, those baby teeth have done all they can do, and i'll leave the rest up to your imagination.  the weekend before i left to go teach at artfest back at the first of april, just as daddy's rapid decline was in a downward spin, i developed a horrid ache in my jaw and called my dentist of 15 years.  the office was closed, i called the emergency number on the office machine which turned out to be my dentist's home machine.  after leaving a frantic message - remember, i was headed out to teach in washington state - i never ever heard back from him.  fortunately, my doctor prescribed an antibiotic that helped me through that next week.  upon my return, when i finally got in to see the dentist, i reprimanded him for not calling back, and he simply chuckled.  then he sent me to an endodontist, for a root canal.  the endodontist was able to see the extent of a problem gone very wrong; when i went back to my dentist, and told him daddy had died, he laughed again.  needless to say, i've changed dentists and am crazy about the one i have now.  anyway....

i thought i'd better write what was supposed to be a quick post and tell you a huge thank you for the outpouring of requests for boxes.  at this point, i'm having to say i've got enough for now to handle - more than enough - and am filing requests in a place where i can check back after the beginning of next week.  i had no idea that this would turn into what it has, and i'm doing all i can to get things moving and out of here.  what this involves?  multiple trips to the post office for flat rate boxes (i've ordered some online but those take over a week to arrive), another trip into town yesterday to purchase new ink cartridges for the printer (am printing online postage labels) and some bubble wrap; the boxes are of course not stuffed to capacity, as they are quite large (when considering filling them, that is), and i don't want the items to rattle around.  i am a packrat, and for six years i've accumulated all manner of things for both my jewelry and my mixed media work (books and art), as well as items for class kit supplies.  how to pack these things without it looking like they were thrown into the boxes?  no easy feat.  i've lined up rows of empty boxes at a time, placed goodies in them at random, sealed them with shipping tape, and have placed mailing labels on boxes not knowing what is in which.  this is a good thing, as i don't want to play favorites with anyone, it slows me down to even think that way.  so, for those of you who've placed your order and have paid, i ask that you bear with me as i muddle my way through getting your box to you.  it takes so much more time than i ever thought it would.

for now, i'll be up to my knees in packing boxes and piles of things.  but just imagine the sense of freedom i will (hopefully) feel once this is all behind me!  already, i'm imagining ways to handle some long-term goals (a better studio, a book to write, for starters).  my body will be aching, as i have to haul lots of bags of things off to the dump (this means filling garbage bags, hauling them up steps to the car, throwing into the car, driving to the dump, and then lifting them out of the car into the dump, and driving back home again).  lesley (my fellow artist friend of eleven years who is now also my creative coach - go check her out here) advises to take the ibuprofen NOW, rather than waiting for the aches to set in.  she is a marvel, people.  i remember how she wrote onto little wooden blocks her things she wanted to accomplish, and placed them in a bowl.  i'd like to be like that, but i never will - it isn't in my genetic makeup, believe me, i've tried - so i have her to keep me on track for this latest attempt at self improvement.

i'm sitting at the laptop on a very rainy day, still in pajamas, hair a total mess, coffee cup drained.  when i look at the photograph above i see so many things after initially seeing the mess:  i need a new studio table; the one i purchased ten years ago at a church rummage sale has seen much better days.  i need a new studio chair; the cane bottomed vintage piece in which i sit is losing its bottom, so i sink and stuff another pillow underneath to shore me up.  i need to re-think the shelves in a really tiny room - it is all i can do to get to one or two levels, the others serve me no use if i cannot utilize the space.  i need better light.  i need a space for a much better printer, since the one i have is pathetic and i can't use it for images in my jewelry.  i need a better camera to take those improved images.  i need, i need, i need.  it shall happen, all of this takes time, and money, and more time.  so, i'm taking charge.  first things, first.  ready, set, GO.  xo

smile

and introducing... my pal dr. dave, dentist extraordinaire...

going into battle

 this is what one's studio looks like when

1. one is coming and going, mostly going, for most of one year
2. one travels to teach, comes home and unpacks only long enough to pack again and take off all over again to teach, to doctor, to soothe, to help, to travel across the country, across the world, to mourn, to celebrate, to patch, to mend
3. one has an ongoing case of ADD
4. one has never been an organized person
5. one has simply not had the time to tell which side was up or down
6. one's studio is teeny tiny, with next to no storage space

i write this and i heave one heavy sigh after another.  it disgusts me to walk into that room, to see what lies before me, what has to be done.  right now, as my creative coach and treasured friend lesley riley instructs me, i need to do two things:  1.  straighten and clear my working space, and 2.  make money.  i've spent week after week with her over the phone during our coaching sessions lamenting my lack of direction, my confusion over what needs to happen first, while she patiently instructs and listens.  so, finally, today, i've begun.  and this is what i'm doing right up front:  i've begun filling medium (and a couple of large) flat rate priority boxes with all sorts of goodies from things i've been gathering for years.  remember, i'm a mixed media artist as well as a jewelry designer, so this means hoarding all manner of papers, books, photographs, sticks, shells, ribbon, yarn, old and new trinkets, rubber stamps, fabrics, jewelry findings, metal bits, beads, eyelets, tools, porcelain dolls, little boxes and treasures.  into boxes i'm stuffing whatever i've not had the time to use (or have been unable to dig out until now) in the 6.5 years that i've been living here.  too, there are things that were carted here from the old house that are only now just turning up; into boxes they go.  i. do. not. have. room. for. these. things.  this is one method of making way, of clearing space, and of making a bit of money to add to my $10,000 dental fund (i assure you, i DO take very good care of my teeth, even though it sounds as if i didn't).  i'll be doing this a good bit in the next week or so, the clearing and the boxing and selling and shipping, as i've reached a point where i cannot with any sense of reward walk into that room, i cannot get any work done with pleasure in there without knocking over bottles of glue, without tearing out my hair trying to find the right tool.  here's how it goes:  i'm charging $30.00 plus $11.00 shipping for each medium flat rate box, ten of which are filled with surprises and already taped and ready to be addressed and picked up by the postman; i also have two large flat rate priority boxes, which have a bit more in them and will cost $40.00 plus $15.00 shipping.  all of these will go to the first who write and tell me they want to purchase the "surprise grab boxes"; simply leave a comment here, with your email address, stating which size you wish to purchase.  i'll send an invoice/request for money to you through paypal, and once you've paid, i'll ship.  remember, for now i have eight of the medium boxes, and two of the large.  it is my plan to stick to the task and have that studio emptied out by the beginning or middle of next week.  and at that point, i plan to breathe a little easier - yes?

editor's note, thursday morning:  WOW.  thanks, all who are interested, all who've already paid for boxes.  i'm amazed that you are willing to work with me on this, and i'm doing my best to get things placed in boxes and taped up to ship.  i have made a couple of trips to the post office, where my beloved postal employee debbie has generously given me entire stacks of medium flat rate boxes.  so, for those of you who are still interested, please leave a comment and i'll add you to the list, and will send you a paypal invoice for the box and shipping charges.  bear with me while i sort through the clerical side of this task, as well as the mess of my studio.  and, if you've not received an invoice from me, this means i inadvertently missed you in the flurry of activity.  thanks so, so much, again.  i also want to say that this brainstorm was not my idea, but that of my friend and creative coach lesley riley - i have called her my "buddha" friend for many many years for her ability to remain calm and sage throughout any sort of weather.  xo

water inspired

  i am savoring the comforts of unlimited time at home again - time to look out the window because i'm not headed out the door - time to watch how the sunshine spills into the eastern side of the house when it pops up over the mountains across the way, time to watch the sunshine as it crawls across the wooden floor and ends up in the western part of the house, coming through the window above my bed.  having all of this time to observe as i putter about with my daily routines (thank god for routines) has been an especially cherished gift:  i've become aware, again.  i am smelling and hearing and feeling, physically feeling, so many things around me - the breeze, the warm wood on the sun covered deck, the crunch of leaves under my feet, the rattle of leaves that still cling to the branches of the maple tree out front.  quiet things.  simple things.  things that don't demand, things that don't make me rush.  lovely things.  it has been a sunny week, and in the midst of all that sun, i managed to pull together a necklace that celebrates the intoxicaton of rain.  yes - rain.  when i was unpacking (and uncovering, shoving out - more on that later) the little boxes of trinkets i carried with me to colorado, i ran across one of my sterling and resin word charms that i made probably five years ago.  a simple thing, this charm - a round, deep bezel with tea stained paper, typewritten with the beautiful four letter word telling of water that falls from the sky. 
i love seeing how my pieces come into being.  they are never planned, are not sketched out on paper before they are made; they come into being, bit by bit, relic by relic, and this entire piece unfolded from that one round little charm.  next?  two thin tabs of antique ivory, that once covered piano keys.  this time i've actually etched an X and an O across the front - like scrimshaw, i guess, in modern times, only this time around there is no ship, no kingly whale at sea.  within the ivory covers is a little found word poem, something i put together with words clipped randomly from antique book text, protected under mica.  then, raindrops of gemstones below.  the pendant hangs from wonderful vintage velvet the color of thunderclouds, a silvery luminous grey. 
looking at these pieces i make, the ones inspired by quiet hours observing the weather, the seasons, the changes in the trees and water and sky that surround me, i am able to see how strongly i'm affected by the beautiful acts of nature.  i worry sometimes that the inspiration will wane, that creativity will dry up and blow away.  i need to remember, then, how i stood this morning at the river, picked up a stone, and imagined it holding all my worries, all my fears.  and imagining that, i threw the stone into the middle of the river.  fear, be gone.  worry, flow away with the river's waters to the sea...
 xo

a saturday work of quiet contemplation

   i hope that this will convey what i mean for this piece to say:

1. what peace there can be in the quiet of home
2. what beauty there is to reflect
3. i have been here, i have been there; right now, here is best
4. come, quiet
5. come, grace
6. come, serenity
7. i acknowledge all things
8. i listen
9. i see
10. it is as it should be.

  what it doesn't tell you is this:  soft green is impossible to capture in this late autumn afternoon light.  i wanted to speak of the green and the browns that linger through all of autumn and then through stark winter and straight on into another spring.  but the green,  something i call "vintage coke bottle" because of the way that it casts softest green flickering light, is there.  and if you listen quietly, you'll hear what the little bird has to say....

available now, here. xo

settling in

  i’m sitting at my front window, as i always am when writing a post, looking out first to the immediate maple tree that stands beyond the deck, then behind the tree to the left at an expanse of trees  that ascend a ridge up to the sky, and then – ultimately – off to the right to the far expanses of trees and mountains and clouds and sky that make up my western horizon.  (the photo that you see here today is one i took earlier this week, as today is as grey and cold as the bottom of an old pewter cup, with all sense of color watered down).  this is the view that you usually see here on Ornamental – the undulating ripples and rises, the dips and eddies of land that look like so many things at so many different times:  torn pieces of construction paper, a rumpled velvet coverlet, a rolling combination of oil and water that will not ever mix. 
 i’ve taken hundreds of photos of this view, and of that tree, in the nearly 6.5 years that i’ve lived in this one house; the changes and the constants never grow stale to me, which is why i love living where the four seasons are so defined, so drastic and sure.  in my previous home, perched up on two acres of land atop a hill on a bend of a quiet road at the quiet edge of town, i used to love to sit on the huge front porch of that house, rocking back and forth in a white wicker swing, watching the seasons wash over the trees and the woods that were beyond me.  but it wasn’t the same as this, somehow – the views were immediate, i couldn’t watch the storms roll in, i couldn’t see the fog as it lifted and dropped again, as it hovered then evaporated slowly into the sky.  sunsets were seen through a bank of western trees, and sunrise – something i still don’t see here, either – was limited to a wash of sun that rose and spilled over the eastern side across the road, as late as 9am.  i miss that house, for a good many reasons – the proximity to town while still being private and quiet, the expansive front porch, the covered carport, the wood burning stove, the big kitchen with its central hardwood island where i cooked, where we gathered and shared big meals.   it was different there, though – the boys were still in school and living at home, i still had wholesale accounts with production line jewelry getting sent to various shops and boutiques across the country, i worked under the roof in a space that had once been an attic.  tall friends had to walk around upstairs with their heads tilted to one side; we generally stayed down below, where the ceilings were tall, where the floor boards creaked when we walked.

i was more social then.  the boys played soccer, and there were women i met while sitting on bleachers watching the games in the waning afternoon light.  we had a lot in common back then, those women and i:  our children were the same age, and our parallel schedules were dictated by school hours and then by afternoon soccer practice and games.  there was the occasional glass of wine shared either at home or in a little café that was walking distance down the road and around the bend.  my time was full.  i was younger.  my time was not my own.

now i live completely alone, my time is as i choose, again.  this year has been one long trip after the next, with three week chunks of time spent not here at home but off in the far reaches of this world.  routines were flung to the wind, and rituals became things that had happened only in my familiar but distant, out of reach past.  i missed the evenings spent sitting out on the deck, listening to the sounds of the night; i missed the early mornings with my cup of cappuccino out on the porch, or here at the windows in front of the light.  i ached for books that could be read without interruption, ached for the chance to listen to music that was my own.  i wanted the time to walk again at the river, to sit and create jewelry without having to stop what i was doing and run an errand for anyone else but myself.  now here I am again.  the house is quiet, the seasons are changing as fast as i can pull out my camera and try to capture the colors and the essences as best i can.  it is difficult to photograph a moving object, and that is what it feels like right now as i stare at a tree that is shedding its leaves after a gusty cold front and period of rain have passed; the tree that only two days ago was full of fiery amber leaves in the last afternoon light is now resembling not an opera star but more like a member of a traveling circus, its costume still bright but disheveled and threadbare in a lot of embarrassing places.  when i pull out my camera in a vain attempt to capture the last of the tree’s lingering radiance, on an overcast morning that refuses to cooperate, i am reminded of a fellow that actor Harvey Keitel beautifully portrayed years and years ago in a movie called Smoke.  his character owned a shop on a busy corner of Brooklyn, New York; every morning at 8am, to the best of my recollection, he walked outside the shop door and snapped a photo of the moment.  then, into a scrapbook each photograph went.  and although it was the same street corner, with the same buildings, the same street light and signs, every photo was different because of the changes in weather, because of the different (and often same) people walking by.  anyway – that’s what i think of this morning as i look out to that tree, when i see the stable vista that is anything but the same, throughout the year, the years.

i was going to write a bit about a piece i worked on in the last two days of my stay in Colorado.  i was going to tell you about the antique teapot strainer, how it had sat on my studio table for something like ten years before i packed it up and carried it with me into an entirely different and new environment.  i was going to tell you how i am reminded of a favorite song from a favorite movie every time i look at this piece – how i had tried to capture a sense of bubbles, although tea usually does  not have bubbles, except right at the first when it is poured into a cup, how it makes me recall so many cups of tea i had throughout the years, with friends or by myself, in winter or fall, in the chill of a new spring... when sitting and watching leaves fall from a tree, when sitting and watching the leaves grow back again.  i wanted to tell you of how i think of hope when i think of friendship and of sharing a cup of tea.  i wanted to tell you that within the teapot resides a little bird, and some favorite words from poet emily dickinson, whose poetry was so often quoted to me by my beloved father.   i suppose i am telling you that now.   i wasn’t able to finish the necklace as i had planned to do while still in breckinridge, colorado – friends came by for a visit, robin and another friend of his came to the studio earlier than expected, i needed to pack the myriad of trinkets and materials that i had hauled and sent to work on while i was there.  but i think, in retrospect, that this was a very good thing:  i was able to visit with my friends, i was able to walk the rainy streets with robin and his friends, i was able to bring the necklace home and work on it yesterday while the rain pattered at my windows, as the cold front moved in and i changed into a long sleeved cashmere sweater, flowered socks, a scarf tied around my bare neck.  in the afternoon i twice brewed two different sorts of tea – cinnamon spice from pike place market in seattle, african rooibos from my beloved upton tea.  i was able to sit and work quietly at the mayhem of my studio table while the steam from my teacup rose and curled into the studio air.  i remembered colorado, i remembered times of tea with friends, and i walked in here from time to time to see the wind blowing yellow leaves of prayer off of that maple tree and sending those prayers and wishes on up into the air of a blustery, burnished grey sky day.  i was able, i was here, it was quiet, my time is all my own.  let’s see how it gets filled in the days and months ahead. Xo

  (photo taken with my iPhone in the magic evening hour of my birthday, as the cold front and rain moved in)

 

fifty five things

it's that time of year again, and here i am counting years and making a list.  nothing in order, not all goals, not all good, not all bad - simply a stream of consciousness list that i've written as soon as it comes to mind.  i hope i'll make many more like this for a lot more of beautiful octobers to come, but who's to say?

1. i'm feeling physically so, so, so much older these days.
2. the colors this autumn seem to be more vibrant than i remember in years past.
3. when the wind blows bright red and yellow leaves from the trees and into the air, they remind me of fluttery little prayers that have been given the gift of flight.  off they go, a million hopes and earnest dreams, no longer restrained.  beautiful.
4. i am very poor at following through with plans to educate, to better, myself. 
5. i want to learn to flyfish, in the mountain wilderness.
6. i want to learn to kayak in calm and quiet waters.
7. i want to learn to knit, and to do it well.
8. i want to learn tai chi, so this arthritic body will not be so rigid or locked.
9. i want to live where it isn't a major ordeal to take a class or two.
10. i want to live where i will feel safe once again.
11. i want a bigger studio.
12. i'm tired of feeling isolated and alone.
13. i miss my daddy.
14. i don't believe that he is entirely gone.
15. i baked myself a beautiful carrot cake yesterday.
16. i love having walter, and most of the time his energy, in my life.
17. i am eternally grateful for the mountains that surround me.
18. i want my art to remain original and fresh.
19. i want to write a book.
20. i don't know where to begin.
21. i wish for a canon rebel.
22. i wish for snowshoes, (size 40, if you are serious).
23. i look forward to deep snow.
24. i look forward to long and quiet winter nights.
25. i love the crunch of dry leaves under my feet.
26. i love the nutty smell of the woods in october.
27. i remain true.  i always will.
28. my favorite cookies are the almond ones i make.
29. my favorite meal is sushi with my boys in downtown asheville.
30. my favorite color is sunset.
31. my favorite word for today is contemplate.
32. i love to smell the rain.
33. i am a voracious reader.
34. my favorite author is anthony doerr.
35. other favorites are north carolina mountain authors ron rash and charles frazier.
36. i still have a burning desire to create.  this pleases me.
37. i  love the magic hour.
38. i am very, very good at a few things, lousy at many more.
39. the number 444, or 44, shows up with alarming regularity in my life.
40. i loathe football.
41. i feel spiritually attached to the countries of australia and new zealand.
42. i wish i knew how to play the piano or guitar, and to play either one very well.
43. i wish i knew how to paint.
44. see what i mean?
45. i'd like to have more order in my life.
46. one day i'd love to live in a house with a library.
47. i want to live in a cottage that is blue, or buttery yellow.
48. "You Are My Sunshine" always makes me cry.
49. i love my boys more than i ever thought possible.
50. i've been blessed to know and love my parents as much as anyone possibly could.
51. lucky me, i have a wonderful sister.
52. i miss my brother ben.
53. i'm more tired than i can say of dental bills.
54. i am worthy.
55. i am deeply loved.

and here is the recipe for the cake, per susan's request from down under - xo:

World's Best Carrot Cake

   There are many wonderful carrot cakes, but this one, from
Creative Ideas for Living magazine, lives up to its name.
Published in Recipe Quest on July 7, 1993.

   1 1/2 cups whole-wheat flour.
   2/3   cup all-purpose flour.
   2     teaspoons each: baking soda and ground cinnamon.
   1/2   teaspoon each: salt and nutmeg.
   1/4   teaspoon ginger.
   1     cup each: granulated sugar, firmly packed brown sugar and
         buttermilk.
   3/4   cup vegetable oil.
   4     eggs.
   1 1/2 teaspoons vanilla extract.
   1     (1-pound) bag carrots, peeled and grated.
   1     (8-ounce) can crushed pineapple, drained.
   1     cup each: chopped walnuts and flaked coconut.
   1/2   cup raisins.
         Cream Cheese Frosting (recipe follows).
         Marzipan carrots (optional).

   Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Grease 3 (8-inch-round) cake pans
and line the bottoms with wax paper. Grease and flour wax
paper.
   Combine flours, soda, cinnamon, salt, nutmeg and ginger in a
medium-size bowl; set aside. Combine sugars, buttermilk, oil,
eggs and vanilla in large bowl; stir until all ingredients are
well-blended. Add flour mixture to buttermilk mixture along
with carrots, pineapple, walnuts, coconut and raisins,
stirring just until well-blended.
   Pour batter into prepared pans. Bake 30 minutes, or until a
wooden pick inserted in center comes out clean. Cool in pans
10 minutes; loosen cake layers from edges of pans with a sharp
knife and invert onto wire racks. Peel off wax paper and cool
completely.
   Spread frosting between layers and on top and sides of cake.
Garnish with marzipan carrots. Cover and refrigerate overnight
before cutting.

   Cream Cheese Frosting

   1/2 cup butter or margarine, softened.
   1   (8-ounce) package cream cheese, softened.
   1   (16-ounce) package powdered sugar.
   2   teaspoons grated orange rind.
   1   teaspoon vanilla extract.

   Combine butter and cream cheese in large mixing bowl; beat
until light and fluffy. Add sugar, orange rind and vanilla,
mixing well. Makes enough frosting for 1 (3-layer) cake.

a few more lovelies...

at first, i was going to write "i wish you all could see my studio" - and still, you see, i'm writing it - but i'm changing that to say that its a good thing you can't see what's in there, at all.  i can hardly see anything, myself.  i'm not sure what it is about my personality and genetic make up that keeps me from handling things in any sort of orderly way.  piles form, quickly.  stacks and piles and general mess.  i'm sick of it.  i wish for a larger studio with far more shelf space, and adequate drawers with labels on everything.  i work in something like an 8 x 10 sized room, with next to nothing for a closet space.  two windows, ah yes, and hardwood floors - and a bathroom, tiny but complete.  but the mess, oh how it does put me to shame. 
i purchased some lovely little vintage brass hair combs probably ten years ago; at the time, they seemed like beautiful blank slates, ready for anything i wished to do to them.  time came, time went, and they were stashed into one of my many little unlabeled drawers within that studio.  over the weekend, while looking for something else, i found them all over again, and this time knew just what to do.

there are six sets of these, over in my little etsy shop.  go see.

one of these days, i'll find the time to sort and pitch and toss and file away, neat as a pin.  who knows when that will be; i fantasize about renting a dumpster for a month, having it parked right below the deck and tossing as much over the railing and into that thing as i can.  but for now, a priority:  i'm off to bake myself a lovely cake with carrots and nuts and whipped cream cheese.  yes i am. xo

a bit of loveliness in my shop...

available now, in my little etsy shop....along with a few new pieces that i've added from my time in colorado... What a year this has been - losses and gains great and small, travels far and wide, milestones galore. now, here we are at the fading end of this year, and i find myself settling into the coming colder months with a desire to do quiet things right here at home - to sit of an evening and stitch or embroider or knit, while the house is still and i am cozy and calm. there are a lot of things i could tell you about this pendant/keyring - about its many symbols (heart, compass, key), the story behind the words (my father's), about how a month ago i came across a bit of vintage tooled leather buried under a folded bit of barkcloth in the studio...about how my travels to the wilds of colorado and australia and new zealand have affected the way i see things in a more rugged way, how the play of colors in autumn light come out in these pieces...i'll leave it to your imagination.

i began by designing a limited edition of what i envisioned to be a keyring - something that both men and women could actually use, something that would fit in a pocket, that would speak of travel and also of being at home. i wanted to use the vintage tooled leather and barkcloth together somehow, and it all began to blossom around the cast brass heart with my father's words regarding travel. and the more i worked on what was supposed to strictly be a keyring, the more a piece of versitile jewelry it became.
 now? it can be used as both, simply by slipping a bit of silk ribbon (included) through the ring, or by easily removing the ring and slipping the barkcloth loop onto one of my simple vintage watchfob chain necklaces, or one of your own. the antiqued bronze ring holds one of my little sterling cast keys from my 1995 collection (removable, for embellishing however/whatever you choose, if you wish), and i've displayed it in these photographs with a few of my own treasured antique keys to inspire you (you'll have to supply your own; these keys are only for photo purposes only, but the little sterling one is yours for keeps). dangling from the bottom of the hand stitched leather is one of my brass compass charms (yes, it truly works) for those who need a little direction, paired with a lovely faceted amazonite bead in a soft sea blue/green (stitched embroidery thread is the same sea blue/green). the pendant measures 5" from the top of the bronze ring to the bottom of the compass.

please keep in mind that the barkcloth varies from piece to piece (all have either a bit of turquoise or salmon color to them, from the same print), and i thank you for letting me choose for you.

this is a limited edition; i only had a small amount of the lovely tooled leather, and once these are gone, there won't be any more that are tooled.  so go, take a peek - and thanks for being here, for being there, for sticking with me through this wild and wooly year. 

xo

surfacing

  i'm here, i really am, mid life wrinkles and all.  i've been too distracted, too busy, to sit down for any length of time to share anything with anyone at all.  it sounds so selfish when i put it that way.  i wince every time i think of the letters of thank yous that i need to write and send halfway around the world; i wake up in the middle of the night and worry about the emails i've not answered, the long list of things i've needed to do for such a long long time.
i won't go into a long litany of reasons why i've stayed away from blogging, from chatter that seemed to take too long for me to jot down here in this spot.  life has been wild, it has been crazy, for all of this upside down year.  i've been home away far more than not.  my father died.  this house on firefly was broken into, again.  my parents' cabin was broken into as well, and when i went out to check on it a couple of weeks ago and discovered the theft and destruction, i was stunned by the mess, by the violence of the break in, by the sense of violation that this third time brought over me.  but this past wonderful, incredible, full blown week was spent with the boys right here at home in the wonderland of western north carolina, the first time we three have been here together since easter (i think, if not earlier) of last year.  i wish i had the time to share with you all the images of this time with them, all the photos we snapped while wandering down lush mossy trails, while we laughed and savored every moment that we had, an overflowing week of treasured memories.  when they left on monday and yesterday, the house was that much emptier.  so empty!  they fill up all this space with their voices, their laughter, their beautiful glorious presence.  i'm not the only one who is pining for those big boys; there is one worn out pup who would love to hit the wooded trails and streams with them all over again.

 

(thank you, roy, for sharing the beautiful photos above with me) 
 this house feels too quiet right now, like it is finally settling into the autumn, like it is gracefully beginning its gentle acceptance of colder days and nights ahead.  for now, i remember and hold in my heart the color that enveloped us, the way that the leaves rustled under our six feet + four, if you count those of mister walter.  goodness!  life.  it keeps spinning forward, and forward, and forward on ahead, while i try to find a balancing point upon which to pivot, upon which to try to stand without growing dizzy or stumbling out of control.  a soothing quiet has settled here, again. 
and now, once again, my studio table is beginning to fill up with a beautiful limited edition of something special that i'm working on; i'll tell you more in the days to come.  think, stocking stuffers.  think, pocket or around the neck.  think, metal meets tooled leather meets barkcloth meets stitched and cast and wired and sewn.  i promise i'll be back here very soon to tell you more.  stay tuned.  xo

here, there, and everywhere

 oh, colorado.  you treated me well.  i love you, i miss you, i think of you now as i make my way home, through alabama, on to atlanta to visit my uncle after cancer surgery, back to alabama to be with my mother for a short couple of days.  i'm keeping this brief, and will write more of my western journey when i finally get back home.  but, for now, a heads up to those of you who were interested in seeing some of the pieces that i created while i was away.  i've listed them in my little etsy shop - go see.  xo

 

what follows

  i'm finally settling into some sort of routine here, in my studio away from the one i know so well at home.  funny thing is, the one at home is more like a black hole than anything right now - is more like a black hole than anything almost all of the time.  here, i've carted little divided boxes of treasures that i keep stacked on the red table beside me where i work, and i plan to continue that approach once i nestle back into firefly road.  one of the things i actually like about staying in a hotel room or cabin or cottage away from home is the fresh slate, the clean and orderly arrangement of my immediate life.  i know where things are for a change.  honestly.  i don't think i'll ever, ever be one of those folks who lives and works with sharpest, linear precision; sometimes i wish i could be more like that, but then i remind myself that my work would not, could not, be what it is if that were the case.  couldn't i ever reach a point somewhere in the middle?!  on sunday afternoon, robin drove over from silverthorne to pick me up and whisk me away into a beautiful rocky adventure.  he is an avid snowboarder, mountain biker, and works in remote areas down winding dirt roads that the usual traveler would never hope to see.  the area of leadville (yes, lead-ville) is surrounded by ancient, abandoned mines; the wood still stands after over 100 years of wind, sun, and heaviest snow.  this part of colorado has beauty that varies in huge extremes; red rock outcroppings morph into grey, and the timberline undulates along the craggy ridgelines.  wildflowers grow in clusters, or scattered across open meadows still green from summer.  ancient cabins lie in stubborn ruins, window openings still intact and framing distant mountains, closer trees, a beloved handsome son. we discovered, here, the perfect place to drape a few pieces of what i've been making.  nails that once held mud or plaster chinking fell off as i hung hammered silver words, gemstones, a photograph of a little girl; three nails came back to the studio with me in a pocket, bent and rusty souvenirs of a magical afternoon.
  golden light...
  worn elements...
  trinkets worn from being loved, from passing through time....
  little bird of the high mountains, smiling into the sun....

sweet robin waited patiently as i hung one piece this way and that, changed the lighting, changed the angles.  i always forget just how much time is spent first taking the photographs, then editing them once i get back to the computer - a necessary part of every artist's work.  the fact that i was surrounded by so much awesome beauty made the chore more like a lovely, other-worldly dream.  i had to wonder, standing there next to that old place, what stories had been told within those walls, what lives were spent there, were lived and celebrated, what adventures unfolded getting there, building the cabin, living out lives that were surely never dull.  i wonder what they would think now of some east coast artist standing there draping newfangled jewels that tell old fashioned dreams. 
we traveled higher from there, up and over mountain passes, through meadows, past  a painted plywood crescent moon and star propped up on a mountainside hanging over one small, odd town.  robin pointed out a series of deeply formed ruts, or chutes, running down one steep mountain ridge that spelled out, in natural formation,         S K Y.  things like this please me, so much, water and wind and rain and melting snow carving out a lovely three lettered word just like that for small, insignificant beings like me to see.  we saw flowers hanging tight at the edge of the world, we saw last afternoon light making everything take on a warm honey glow.  how can things be this beautiful?  and they are.  we live our lives wrapped up in a continuous onslaught of news good and bad, we worry about money, we worry about war, we worry, we worry, we worry.  and still, this earth shines bravely on.  
 standing at the top of the world like this, i want to stretch out my arms as wide as i humanly can and embrace it all, every grand thing.    coming back to the studio after an afternoon like this, i feel like i am racing to make tangible and real the ideas that are stemming from my time out in the middle of all that rugged, scented wild.  one piece called "nest egg" came to life yesterday in honor of a prospector's hopes and dreams; i finished it in the late afternoon, then stepped quietly outside the studio to photograph it nestled in a bronze miner's pan. 
three or four raindrops fell.  time stood still.  i studied, i remembered, i captured it in frozen time. 
 
 and then i stepped back inside and began the piece that i'll finish today - a work that is the essence of those heavenly golden wildflowers, high atop a mountain ridge, dancing with quiet abandon in the wind.  i hope it will convey everything that i am feeling in my heart; i hope its story will come through.  with all that memory wrapped up inside, how could it not?  and so, today, i thread my memories together in a strand.   "i spend my days walking up and down the rugged trails, and in my heart i carry home with me each of earth's embroidered flowers"  xo

postcards from colorado 2

 i brought a handful of these postcards like you see above to set out on a table in the studio here in colorado; they had been buried under my studio table, along with a myriad of other lost things, for a good three or four years since i had them printed.  the necklace makes me smile - it was a gift to my australian friend jacky, and i saw it around her neck when i was there back in july.  made of one of my old ivory piano key pieces, it seems as new to me this morning as it was when first it was created, years ago.  reading the words on this card make me recall so many things - especially how one asheville gal who runs a lovely gallery there helped me to come up with the description of my work as "narrative jewelry", and "every piece tells a story" and "within each piece, a story unfolds".  i smile at these words - i see them a lot now, in etsy shops, on blogs, with other jewelry artists who've decided to make stories from trinkets as well.  the words seem so much a part of me, the stories with the making, with the tinkering.  i remember carrying my work to the asheville gallery, discussing each necklace or set of earrings with the appreciative employees before they were left there to be displayed under glass, to be purchased by complete strangers.  i remember mulling over whether or not to apply to join the juried southern highland craft guild, how nervous i was about sending off photographs of my work to be discussed by the judges, how excited i was when i got the news that i had been accepted.  i remember the one and only time i decided to have a booth in one of the guild's big shows, how painfully nervous and frightened i was at the time, how much work it was to purchase things like lighting and carpet and padding for the booth, then to lug those things to the car and drive to asheville for five days in a row.  i remember most of all how surprised i was to discover that i could not abide sitting there for five long days in an out of the way area, a fish in a bowl watching people pass by my booth, watching them stop to look, watching them either leaving the booth as fast as they could or deciding to linger, to purchase.  it was excruciating, and i've not been back.  years have passed, i've continued to sell my work myself but have foregone wholesale work and have never ever considered returning to street or craft shows.  no way.   this time around, i'm in a different situation - a little similar in that my door is open to the general public walking by, open to anyone who wants to wander in and have a look while i tap away at my work.  while still at home, i packed a couple of my beloved artist books, made a good seven and ten years ago, and sent them out last week along with the heaviest of tools and supplies.  into a box the tender books went, along with metal stamping letters, a bench block, strands of pearls and turquoise, stacks of ivory piano keys.  
yesterday morning i made it downstairs after breakfast, and began unpacking beloved and familiar artwork and supplies,  fingering them briefly before laying out on a covered table in the morning light.  how much like home they feel, displayed like that.  i carried the jug of sunflowers down for the day, carried them back upstairs at dusk so they'd be here to greet me this morning.  i'm not sure why i'm so fixated on these flowers - droopy, splashy, the color of optimism and sunshine - but i've been taking photo after photo of the silly things and am grateful for their presence, for their quiet radiance.  being here, open to the public certain hours of certain days, is not like being at a show where i am exposing my heart and soul to a buying public unfamiliar with my wares.  i have the pleasure of sitting at my work table, safely camouflaged behind hammer and mallet, behind spools of silver wire and neat little stacks of ribbon and snippets of old faded silks and brocades.  every now and again someone will walk through the open door, usually a woman with her straggling husband, and we chat about the things that i do, the artwork that i've made, the things that i am beginning to create.  everyone who passes through could not be any lovelier.  i like that this is a working studio, where i am able to come and go as i please, i can stay in to work, then walk out to explore, to be inspired.  what an incredible thing that i've been invited to be here, that i am invited to come back for a longer period sometime soon.  what an incredible thing that my work has brought me here, just as it has carried me all the way across the world on many a different occasion.
i've had the thought just now that when robin comes to pick me up, i'll carry a few of my "wild west" pieces along with us and photograph them out in the middle of all that grand nature.  i picture the jewelry resting on some of that red rock, on weathered wood, in the middle of tall, faded grass.  i love this idea.  and i will be sharing with you whatever i discover.  i'll also be listing, within my etsy shop, some of the pieces that i've been inspired to make.  sounds like a plan.  xo

postcards from breckenridge - the beginning

  well, great goodness, i am here.  another trip, another couple of plane rides that carry me up and over clouds and water and land, where i am picked up after a great deal of scurry and stress and plunked down in a completely new environment.  i arrived, as i did last year, well after dark, and didn't see what lay before me until i woke the next morning, bleary eyed, confused, feeling hung over with this high, high altitude.
  the landscape - well, i'm breathing in deeply here to imagine what i could say.  pictures will just have to do.  rugged, huge, magestic, intense - none of those words seem to convey.  i asked robin to stop the car, an iffy thing when you consider the size of that road and the angle of the curve, the inability to see what is coming up around the bend - but i wanted a piece of that red, red rock to carry back here to the studio with me, to set it on the table as i work so i can remember, so i can attempt to transcribe into the pieces that i create.  the leaves are just beginning to turn; green still prevails for now.  i think that by the time i leave, the color of amber will be spreading like honey everywhere.  for now, it crops up in funny little places - at my feet, tucked into a stone wall, splashed across my eastern window (thank you robin for the beautifully crafted vase; my heart wants to shear into slivered shards each time i look over that way).
 
 
 so, as i said, i'm here:
  if you'll look up at the little building, imagine me sitting upstairs at the table with the sunflowers, at the sun-filled window there on the left hand side.  from the front window above the little porch last evening, i was able to sit and watch a beautiful fox that broke my heart (my heart seems to break so easily, these days) as it darted between buildings, leaping through grass at what i presumed to be a mouse.    go, little fox, go.  this morning, i am trying to be brave.  i look on the table and see the bottle cap robin handed me from his car as he pulled away, leaving me standing there all trembly-chinned and waving like a poor lost soul; inside the cap it said "bravely done".  not yet, robin.  not just yet.  i went to bed trying not to panic, trying to feel like i could conquer the world.  this morning, i woke up after a very poor night's sleep (altitude, again?  doubt?  insecurity?  all of the above, i think), pulled back the cotton curtains, made a cup of lapsang souchong tea.  buttered my english muffin, placed a few grapes on the plate.  drank lots and lots and lots of water, an ongoing thing.  after i finish here, i'll walk downstairs, unpack my overstuffed tool bag and the box of trinket makings that i sent in the mail ahead of myself.  i'll open the door and try to look like i know what i am doing.  suddenly my quiet little narrative jewelry's stories don't seem big enough for this place.  do you see me there, in last night's dusk, finding my own face looking back at me?
  
this morning i am wearing striped socks with the colors of the sky and the yellow leaves and the red, red rock.  i am wearing a dress of copper over my faded old blue jeans.  i am wearing my jewelry around my neck, i am wearing my heart embroidered to my coppery sleeve.  xo 
"It is not the critic that counts, not the man who points out how a strong man stumbled, or the doer of deeds could have done better.  The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena; whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs and comes up short again and again; who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions and spends himself in a worthy cause; who at best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement; and who at the worst, if he fails, at least he fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory or defeat." - Theodore Roosevelt, a quote i found pinned to the wall downstairs

snippets

  i know i'm quiet, and i'll continue to be.  i did want to say that roy is fine - he weathered that awful onslaught of horrendous high winds and flooding, had the wisdom to park his car in a different spot so that the inevitable big limbs would fall not on the car but in the drive, has power again, is fine.  me, i'm frantic with preparations to head out again, first to alabama to be with my mother for a few lovely days (she is doing well, considering) then from there on to the other world of colorado.  i'm looking at the jewelry pieces i've created this past week and am amused to see that i've abandoned my fervor for knotting pearls and  gemstones on thin silk cord, for now; i'm choosing instead to string rows and rows of stones and beads closely together, to wrap those rich strands with beautiful, earthy, ravelled and frayed bits of fabric and thread.  the rawness of this - something that was born in australia and new zealand, something now strongly brewing in my mind - the rawness appeals to me in the deepest of gut-wrenching ways.   i seem to be heading into a different direction with my work, and the amazing thing is that i see it comes not only from where i've been (australia and new zealand) but also where i'll be going (the highest rocky mountains of colorado). just imagining myself in that rugged environment has made my jewelry take off on an altered path.  i was saying to a friend the other day that i'm not sure which direction i'm heading - then laughed and said that i suppose it is simply straight ahead.  and so it is. 

 
throughout the years - how many are there?! - friends from near and far have sent me snippets of things they think i might like to use in my work:  ribbon, beads, feathers, stones all have found their way into my mailbox, and from there to the studio, sometimes to sit and percolate for months, sometimes for years.  one friend in particular, lorri scott, has once again quite recently been sending me bits of her own work (dyed fabric and ribbon) and sometimes treasured beads  - vintage russian baltic amber, here, from strands of family trinkets that she feels would serve a lovely purpose in my work.  i thank all my friends for having that much faith in me - they always have - and for sharing such beautiful bounty.  i carried with me ribbon that lorri had made all the way to the western shores of magical australia; some of those pieces i used in class, some was used in an art piece i made while students worked on their own shadowboxes, some i shared with a beloved aussie friend.  i think back to those  days of teaching down under (and yes, i will write about my round the world trip - maybe even while i am in colorado, who knows?!) and remember the way that the sunlight hit the bits of deep red resin that jacky had brought back from the bush; now i am working with amber, a resin from another part of the world.  it all seems connected, somehow.... the resin, the glow of the afternoon light, the rugged raw colors, the stone.  all of it.  i smile when i look at this photo - one of probably 100 that were frantically snapped while jacky and i watched the last of the afternoon light shoot quickly across a little church's cemetery and stone walls. i titled this one "magic hour at a roadside church"; i look at it and smile, because there are so many many incredible memories all wrapped up into that one brief moment, there in the last of the golden afternoon sunshine with beloved jacky, there in a really powerful, magical, treasured part of this world.  there were parts of that trip, taken so so soon after daddy's passing, when i felt a little like a little girl dumbfounded by what was surrounding her:  things seemed upside down, in an alice-through-the-looking-glass sort of way, and i wondered at the time how the trip would have its effects on me.  all of that seems much clearer now, the effects that will stay with me forever; my work seems bolder, stronger, more direct, even while maintaining that quiet storytelling factor that i like to thread throughout.  i thought i'd share with you a couple of other pieces that i've worked on this week, in anticipation of sharing my work in yet another different environment - one just as rugged as australia, quite parallel in so many ways.   this piece was more than two years in the making:  i had purchased the tiny little faceted sapphire stones years back with the intention of incorporating them as "stars" set into precious metal clay.  originally i had meant to pair them with blades of grass, little blue orbs hovering over summery growth.  i'm not quite sure why i decided to use the little dress, except i recalled standing on that cottage verandah in the late australian winter night, staring up at the stars, watching the southern cross, marveling at a constellation that i cannot usually see.  i remembered the little girl feeling of utter amazement and awe, and somehow this piece fell quickly together after that. 
on the back of the dress piece, i engraved these words:  "In her dreams, she plucked the stars from the sky and fastened them like buttons to the front of her dress".    the fabric snippet i used is yet more of some beautiful antique kimono silk that lorri had dyed and given to me, back in winter when i visited california.  it all comes together, you see?

i worked on something, too, this week, that i based on objects that had been kicking around my studio for over ten years.  the notion came to me like a quick blast of light one day while i was walking out in the back woods behind the house with walter, and it was all i could do to get back to the studio and execute the designs.  i absolutely love the idea of combining birds' nests with parts of a musical instrument - in this case, antique ivory piano key pieces - and bringing all the visual components together with ones of emotion.  the cicada wing is something i found while out on our walks this past month here at home; it seemed to go perfectly with the nests.  how i will use it remains to be seen; colorado will enlighten me, this much i know.  for now, i've used one lovely nest, and named it Grace. because, as you all know, life - and this great big world -  is all wrapped up in it. so, off i go next week to the wilds of colorado - but really, more to the wilds of the unknown, the unfamiliar, the naked new.  i'm more than a little anxious about this experience, but also i am excited.  my son robin will be there, and so will the beauties of colorado.  come see me, if you can.  i'll close with a quote i read earlier this week, from alan alda:  "You have to leave the city of your comfort and go into the wilderness of your intuition.  What you'll discover will be wonderful.  What you'll discover will be yourself." 

goodness, yes.  thank you, mr. alda.  and thank you, friends, for all of your lovely words of encouragement and support.  xo

 

 

heart strings

  i'm always surprised at the variation in colors of the very same thing - jewelry, in this case - that i struggle to capture with waning light.  i wait until the end of the day, usually, because no. 1, that's usually when i finish a piece, and no. 2, the light is kinder towards the early side of dusk.  roy calls it the magic hour - roy, who as i write this is working a television camera for the tv station that employs him in wilmington, north carolina.  there is a hurricane barreling straight towards that city, as if any of you weren't aware.  the mother in me worries - does he have plenty of water?  batteries?  but he brushes the worries off with his young adult cool.  i'll be fine, mom.  i love you.  so, i busy myself taking photo after photo of the same piece of jewelry, this angle and that, a brighter exposure than the last, a different place in the house.  nothing matters; the colors shift with every change.  and i worry.  i worry.  i worry.
  it didn't even occur to me until just now that the piece i'd been working on all day speaks of matters of the heart.  no surprise there - most of my jewelry does.  but heart strings?  today?  makes total sense to me. damn it.  blurry, and at this point, the light's too far gone.  you get the idea:  antique embroidered sari fabric behind antique optical glass, peruvian opals strung with luscious garnet, the color of love.  at least for today, it is.  and on the back of the focal piece, something i fashioned all the way back in march when i was weathering an entirely different storm (it's not over, folks, but i've developed a stronger stamina), i engraved these words:  and something that tugs at my heart tonight:  my older son robin, instigator of the entire colorado adventure coming up, is out distributing flyers that announce my visit to The Tin Shop.  this was his idea, entirely (this, from the little third grader who asked me to come speak to his class, who jumped up to stand beside me as i spoke, who told the entire class "my mom's famous", seventeen years ago).  he seems to think that i'm worth all that, and i'm so touched by his enthusiasm that i don't even know what more to write.  so, i'll just say this:  i love you, robin.  i love you, roy.  and that is all that matters, in the end.  xo

golden

  i am still here, and scrambling to stay abreast of everything.  and i am remembering this:  which took me down a path to conjure this: which was really begun in my mind when i recalled hiking old mining trails last year with robin   and finding colorado miners' porcelain buttons and rusty old nails from a time long past...

   i am amazed at the similarity of colors that flow all the way from australia to colorado; they are coming out in my work that is a blend of there and there and here, just so.  i look at this, taken in australia, taken on the side of the road when jacky and i were coming back from a monastery at the end of the day,   and this, a bit of 
dried gum tree resin that jacky gathered in the bush in the heart of dwellingup  which has that same other worldly glow, in the late afternoon, as this old rust-red painted water tower for a steam engine of long ago.   the yellow of the trees, too - those aspens, all lit up in the late afternoon light,    these are the very color of the basket of kumquats glowing in the rainy afternoon light of my australian pal robyn's lovely kitchen in stoneville, in the hills above beautiful perth.  the other day i pulled out a brilliant yellow ginko leaf that had clung to the wet road in new zealand where my friends and i crossed to visit an auckland shop - a natural memento of a place, and its people, that i hold so dear in my heart.    i've been remembering with great fondness the middle of winter there in southwestern australia, which is a great deal like the novembers of my own autumn - wet, chilly, but full of lingering rich color.  and in thinking of the vistas that wait for me in the highest mountains of colorado, i've begun working in colors that had not surfaced in my jewelry at all this year, until now.  i see a lot of things, when i look at the light through these pieces of the earth; i see most of all that everything comes around full circle, when and as it should.  xo

interlude

  i've been home from australia and new zealand for over three weeks, yet still am feeling the sensation of having just arrived at my own front door after a very long time away.  this has been a tumultuous year, to say the least - a lot of coming home, a lot more time of going away, and a great deal of attempts to let go, to release, to say goodbye.  i realized with a start the other day that the sadness which has permeated so much of the past months of this year has finally subsided enough that i hadn't realized - like a persistent headache, after taking medication - that it had begun to wane.  i'm still sad, believe me i am, but it is no longer the overwhelming emotion that washes through me with my days.  and that, my friends, is what i recognize as Grace with a capital G.  i have the sweetest neighbors, with eva and dave:  they call to see if i am okay, they call when they spot an unknown vehicle in my drive when i am away, they bring an icy cold drink from the back of their car and a tea-towel-lined box filled to overflowing with vegetables from their garden, a red ball for walter, a single riotous hibiscus blossom in a glass bud vase.  i've watched that blossom pass from tender new flower to withered sunset, with petals tissue paper thin and crinkled like oldest skin.  i do not have the heart right now to throw it away.

  many, many thanks to those of you who purchased the latest pendant charms i've offered!  the simple act of hammering those words has brought great peace and clarity, and it is rewarding as well to see your response.  time in the studio has been extremely limited this year to the early weeks of the january, when snow covered the ground, two and 1/2 weeks in march leading up to artfest, and a small bit of time when i worked on the heart pendant with daddy's words back in june, just after he had passed.  the rest of my time has been spent on the road, driving or being driven or flying here and there, closing the door behind me, opening it again with a deep sigh of relief each time i walk in and see that nothing has been stolen in my absence.  the house is beginning to smell like my own familiar place again, as strange as that sounds; the musty smell of dusty, damp neglect is gone with the windows flung wide open to summer, and i've been diffusing lovely essential oils (thank you precious wendy and joshna!) called "bountiful", "letting go", and "tranquil sleep" to restore things to balance once more. 

now, i'm facing another trip - this time, out to the wilds of the colorado high mountains, where i'll be spending ten days as a resident artist in the little breckenridge Tin Shop studio.  my older son robin urged me, this time last year, to apply for the position; only at his insistance, mind you, did i apply.  this is far, far beyond my comfort zone, this business of sitting in a studio where the general public can wander in for four hours a day; folks won't know me, they won't have a clue who this woman is from the deep south who sits at a table and taps away at silver, who knots gemstones onto silk, who pours emotion and stories into every little piece of work she creates.  i had expressed hesitation over the phone to robin last week (my mother was still in the throes of hospital tests - and she is okay, thank goodness, after all, as far as the doctors can tell); but when i heard the disappointment in his voice, when he insisted that i come, i knew i should.  and so, i am.  and again, anxiety over leaving home sets in.  but as one of my reader friends said to me, and as i've told myself over and over since the final decision was made, who knows what bright new possibilities will then present themselves to me?  four different folks have written me in the last few days to request custom orders for onward charms - enough to make me realize that i ought to offer the rest of you the chance to order one (or more) as well.  here is what i'll do:  i'll take orders over in my etsy shop (click here)for a few days for any word choice you wish (within reason, that is - i do have my ethical and aesthetic standards ;)) as long as the word is limited to eight letters or less; if two lines of words are requested, there will be an additional $10.00 charge per piece.  so, $95.00 for one word or line (and if there are two short words, like "new path", for instance, they will qualify as one eight-letter line, at $95), and $105.00 for something like "ongoing journey".  all pendants will have the compass in brass, unless of course you desire something simpler like a single gemstone dangling from the bottom.  be sure to state your word choice in the "notes" section there in your etsy cart's listing.  i will only take orders through monday, august 22, as i'll need to be making jewelry for colorado by that poiint.

take a look at the photograph above, with the seashells to the left; those shells were found at the edge of the indian ocean, where my beloved jacky and i walked and dipped our bare winter feet into the cold, blue water.  jacky picked up a shell and handed it to me; and upon closer inspection,  i see that it has my name on it, as well as the letters W and A (for western australia, see?).  
i love the other shell as much as this one, for a lot of reasons - i found it while walking the beach my last day in australia with jacky, it resembles what we imagine as the wing of angel, and because it has half of a circle in a line of dashes, placed there at some point by an artistic, unassuming sea creature.  the line has not come full circle, which is as it should be.  jacky declared that she had to find one as well before we left the beach, and here are our hands together, holding our precious mementos.  i plan on using that sea shell somehow in upcoming jewelry pieces, as part of my australia/new zealand-inspired work; my thoughts are overflowing with ideas, which is certainly an encouraging thing after such a long, dry spell. this is one of my favorite photographs from the entire trip, and i have a LOT of favorites.  i will be, i promise you, sharing some stories and images from that journey, as soon as i can figure out how best to delegate my time between making jewelry, organizing my schedule, and writing posts for ornamental.  i'm in the middle of re-vamping things here, working things so that it won't be such a drain on my time to sit and polish my words and photographs.  in the meantime, i hope that the closing weeks of your summer are as rewarding as you hoped they'd be, back in the young green days of june when we had the whole season ahead of us.  xo