Kuriosities

Pride – my peacock and the quince bush

So here is my awful and overwhelming secret (there may be more, but this is the one that I will actually share with you). My studio is a den of filth and disarray. I am a muddle-brained person when it comes to organisation. It is not that I do not appreciate the beauty of a well organised and tidy space – I do! I long for it. I am just rotten at it. I am so distractable and yet in complete contrast, utterly and completely focused. If I am doing something such as reading something intriguing, or am lost in the making of a piece, I will actually not be able to hear you. I cannot see you enter the room. Nothing will exist outside of that object that has my passionate interest at the time. To get my attention you would likely actually have to touch my arm or give me a little jostle, at which point I will either be somewhat lost or you will have provoked my ire. A strength and a weakness both, that mad professor mind. Yet…I cannot put the scissors away in the same place twice. Even on my kindergarten report card (and every single one since) it says such things as K displays extraordinary focus, but seems to be lacking the necessary organization skills. or more specifically “K has a great deal of trouble keeping her desk organized which results in time wasted looking for things.” Hmmm…. well, it is still true, as you shall see. It has gotten to the point of chaos that is so huge and awful that I must now spend the day fixing it – which is obviously my least preferred way to spend my time – let alone a Sunday! This makes me a bit grouchy and snappish. <yes, I am frowning deeply now.>

Ok, deep breath, here goes, my shameful, shameful studio. (It is so shameful that an interviewee once told me that I needed to hire her specifically because I needed her skills at organization to clean my office – NOT part of the job description! -and I needn’t have to tell you that this statement was met with a grave and ashen response from me as she was quickly ushered out the door. The state of my studio is one of those things that it is understood should not be mentioned. ever. and I will actually at times defend its horrid state as a reflection of the creative mind and a sacred balance that must not be disturbed, lest the well dry up and the world collapse in ruin…)

And now for a complete contrast, to increase my shame, and thus my motivation – here is the desk of my assistant. Hrumph.

So am I writing today to avoid my studio’s state of mind-boggling disarray? Why, yes I am… silly questions! But when I am done, I shall bring myself to sort and sweep, however much I do not want to.

I do not like this particular sea, Lou
the way its waters part and
lead me to the bottom. And you
here waiting, with tea, and oranges
a chair pulled out from the table
for me to sit awhile at your side – all
unexpected.

There are no words, Lou
they have swam away like fishes. The
silvered minnow swish flickers
in the water, and away, as we
watch. I shift in my seat, then shift again

This was not the meeting
I had planned. This pebble in
the bottom of my tea cup, is
not mine to swallow. take it back.

I’ve been listening to the Decemberists quite a bit, as of late, and am so inspired by their music – but mostly by the writing of Colin Meloy. What a brilliant lyricist, and storyteller. He has the ability to transport the imagination to a completely other realm. I can get lost in his songs…and his use of language, his poet’s heart. I watched some videos on youtube of him performing solo - which was really incredible – and informative. Last guitar lesson we were talking about hand positioning for different styles, using the thumb for muting the low strings and to enable different hand positions – and it was neat to see Colin Meloy doing exactly this. I also found it incredible his ability to command a performance – that he can stand alone on a stage with his guitar and you are so absorbed in his performance that you don’t even miss the presence of other performers – bassists, percussionists, keyboardists, all a vague and distant memory. His performance just shines that bright. There was a video in particular where he performed in a record store alone, The Island,  accoustically – which he said he had never really done before – and it was so impressive.

There is one warning that should be attached to the front of Decemberists albums though…At the outset, they may seem a bit mellow in their storytelling folkiness – but do NOT listen to them before setting your head on the pillow for the night. Eegads. The Shankhill Butchers (one of my favourite songs by them…that line alone “if you don’t mind your mother’s words, a wicked wind will blow your ribbons from your curls” Ah! so lovely, and the melody…) is in particular not before bedtime fodder. Yikes. The dreams that followed, the horrid scene of  evisceration will haunt me forever. Stuff it back to nightmare land, and quick! Not for the faint of heart or the over imaginative (ie. not for me).

I have a few pieces at casting right now that I am waiting for on pins and needles. My sweet little sparrow that I wrote about weeks (months?) ago. I have plans for that little sterling sparrow, her little magical hearted self shall be planted in several designs, I cannot wait for her return! And also the tiniest little sterling band, with the tiniest rustic little battered heart.

Several metalsmith ideas in the works…continuing with the keyhole pendants, and a new crow. Have started a copper heart pendant “she dreams of green”, with a dragonscale hued labradorite bezel set in the centre…something like this one below I made quite some time ago with the garnet, but a more elongated heart, and it will attach with a riveted bail, two actually, to an oxidised sterling chain:

  

Also…steampunk! I have been reading about this strange thing, and looking at photos of fantastical creations, and so inspired! I have a huge bag of watch parts that I have two ideas for: a steampunk timetravelling heart. I think I already have one of these inside me ticking away, all wild and wrong, sometimes here, sometimes in far off places – so I thought I might construct one from metal. And the other steampunk-ish clockwork time traveller piece is a secret ( i love small secrets, it makes the pieces better, imbues them with a certain intangible quality of enchantment!). I will share it when it is done…maybe.

Hmmm…was just contacted by a highscool friend on facebook, that strangest of social creations. I have no great fondness for facebook and its posturing, like an extended really awful reunion where everybody posts only photos of themselves before they gained that 40 lbs, and try to make themselves out to be happier, smarter, swankier, wealthier and generally more important than they really are, But this time, it is actually somebody that I am happy to hear from! In fact I have googled him before but came up empty. So maybe facebook isn’t entirely without its merits. But that’s about all that I will begrudgingly give it.

Reading poems earlier today, Rilke, mostly because the greening field outside my studio, with its distant trees always reminds me of the bird in the evening and the fragrant meadows. These are two of my favourites…they take me breath away, fill my lungs with something other than air – something more expansive. 

Woman in Love by RM Rilke 

 That is my window. Just now
I have so softly wakened.
I thought that I would float.
How far does my life reach,
and where does the night begin

I could think that everything
was still me all around;
transparent like a crystal’s
depths, darkened, mute.

I could keep even the stars
within me; so immense
my heart seems to me; so willingly
it let him go again.

whom I began perhaps to love, perhaps to hold.
Like something strange, undreamt-of,
my fate now gazes at me.

For what, then, am I stretched out
beneath this endlessness,
exuding fragrance like a meadow,
swayed this way and that,

calling out and frightened
that someone will hear the call,
and destined to disappear
inside some other life. 

You who never arrived by RM Rilke 

You who never arrived
in my arms, Beloved, who were lost
from the start,
I don’t even know what songs
would please you. I have given up trying
to recognize you in the surging wave of the next
moment. All the immense
images in me- the far-off, deeply-felt landscape,
cities, towers, and bridges, and unsuspected
turns in the path,
and those powerful lands that were once
pulsing with the life of the gods-
all rise within me to mean
you, who forever elude me.

You, Beloved, who are all
the gardens I have ever gazed at,
longing. An open window
in a country house-, and you almost
stepped out, pensive, to meet me.
Streets that I chanced upon,-
you had just walked down them and vanished.
And sometimes, in a shop, the mirrors
were still dizzy with your presence and, startled,
gave back my too-sudden image. Who knows?
perhaps the same bird echoed through both of us
yesterday, seperate, in the evening… 

Symposium 

i search the eyes of strangers, brother
for some sign of you, a heart
beating as wild and wrong as this one caged
beneath my ribs, the slow burn of a lingering
sadness, the hidden ebb and flow of missing blood.

i search the winter for you, brother, can you
feel my footfall on this frozen earth? is it a rhythm that
propels you forward, each day marked by
the icy edge of longing? the inky desolation of
tussled bedsheets a bleak map of despair each dawn?

i search these roads, brother, sleepless,
ragged, your song whispers in my veins

find me

             please 

 

 

 

copyright 2008 Kuriosities.com, all rights reserved, may not be reprinted without permission

My poor fingers are all ablister with my guitar playing attempts. Literally. Underneath my callouses that were developing so nicely there are little pockets of fluid. Ouch. Now that they can manage some bars of a song, now that they can play SOMETHING, it is becoming a passion. To have the music coming from me, to participate in the music instead of it only playing through my ear, sounding in my head… it is a bliss, and that far away place that music takes you, that addiction that hums in the blood. It is a frustration as well. I want it mastered. I want to write the songs, I want to create more than plunky sounds. Such a long process! Yet meditative, pleasing all the same.

Although I do have one complaint. Things were going quite strummingly in my song that I am playing (Good to Me, by Brendan Benson). It was all going lovely – my teacher showed me tricks on how to change the chords quickly (which worked so well, and just !! happy!) but then… then… BAR chords. What the hell! Now my fingers have returned to being moronic and slow, stumbling and awkward…. and things are not going strummingly at all. They are going very stumbling and stupid. grrr… perseverance. I will play this song. I will learn this confounded instrument. I will.

Some pictures of recent items made this week! I photographed them on an antique cog from some old farm machinery that we found in the back field. I love that thing with all of its contrasting textures and rich colours.

This pendant was made for a client from a drawing that she gave me of her wedding invitation. The two large birds represent her and her husband. The small bird is their baby. The tiny little bird is their hoped for future baby. It is a gift for her husband, so we went with a simple metalsmithed design in brushed oxidised sterling, so it would be masculine, and strung it on a simple greek leather cord with a sterling clasp. It is hard to see from the photos, but the underlayer is oxidised a deep grayish black so that the birds really stand out. I love playing with rivets. It measured about 2 cm wide x 2.5 high.

 

 

 

The following is one of my “Love you to the Moon and back cuffs”, with custom stamping on the inside of the client’s children’s names. I love how the moonstone at the clasp looks in this photo.

 

 

This was another piece for the same client. It is a special piece for the new mother of very premature twins. In each tiny dome is the initial of one of the twins. The freshwater pearls are their birthstones. They are also representative of innocence and all things new – so fitting to represent these fragile new lives. I love this necklace – delicate and elegant, and full of meaning.

 

And my guitar poem seems fitting at this point – as all things guitar are on the brain!

Guitar
by K.

please forgive me.
these clumsy attempts at love
are not at all what i wanted
going in.

these naive fingers-
awkward as adolescents
rushing,  furtive, fumbling
too slow, too fast
all wrong

do you know how
much i want to make you
cry out? how i need
you to bend to me?

in dreams i close my eyes
and cradle you, my fingers
skim your contours, read
you like braille – sound the one
note where you buried
your heart.

copyright 2007 Kuriosities.com, all rights reserved, may not be reprinted without permission
 

Also, this… I must thank Mr. Benson from the very bottom of my heart. And no, before you get all excited, I do not know him personally or have any affiliation with the man or any such silly notions – it is just this… take a little peek at what is gracing his neck at Bonnaroo… 

 

 

Yes! it is my Dodo stamp pendant…and this notion makes me absolutely giddy and full of joy…one, because Brendan is wearing my pendant (oh! hurray!) and I admire his work so very much, two, because it means he must like it (hurray!) which means that I was able to give something back to someone who has provided me with hours of music in this little studio (that makes my heart so very happy, I love to give gifts), and three, because thousands of people saw it (oh my!).

So much to write!! But actually I have to work now…food on the table and all that jazz…(unless there is a benefactor waiting in the wings, who expects nothing in return but poems, pendants, letters and journals…I am accepting applications….anyone? please? ).

But I will leave you with this small strangeness – we now have a baby crow, found in the middle of the road, baking onthe pavement. Rescued and now ensconced in our home. Half hourly feedings where I get to be Mama Crow shoving food down it’s little throat. Poor little soul, but found his way to the most adoring lover of crows. He is well and spry this morning!

My brother, who was diagnosed with cancer a month ago, and had the tumour removed in a sore and tender surgery, is going to be fine! I mean really fine. It’s gone, it hadn’t spread. The CT scans were clear. The tumour was of the less aggressive type of cancer cells, and they caught it so early it hadn’t  a chance to spread. No need for chemo – he’s going to be OK!!!!

What a crazy whirlwind month of fear and awfulness, for him, for us, for everyone who knows and loves him. But it is done. He is going to be fine. Such relief, and happiness! Such extremes it is hard to wrap one’s mind around it. The month my brother had cancer? So bizarre, but the best possible news to ever hear, that he will be well!

there are some that are born to this
and she is one, the cool
green lump of the earth pressing into her spine
she spins the clouds, commands this
waving sea of grass. There is dirt
beeath her fingernails, her fingers reach
deep where the naked roots lay sleeping
she too sleeps, the sun on her skin
as she sinks.

there are other oceans now, these deep green
seas of her dreams, she swims each one
dives to the bottom searching for
the one stone that holds her heart, the one
that dropped, slid through her fingers as they
opened in surprise, quivered in that moment’s
one gift. It wasn’t until later, that she noticed
the longing set in to stay, each watery breath
pulled by the tide

Guitar lessons tonight. I am building callouses on my fingertips, and yet they are still so sore from practicing. My first song…Good to Me, by Brendan Benson. So much more inspiration to practice when the sounds that I am pulling from the strings are familiar and well loved. But my fingers are still a little (a lot) stupid as they move across the frets, some changes easier than others – my sense of rhythm and strumming frustratingly more intuitive and developed than my chord hand – which makes sense it being the left and all – but still – I don’t want to stop or slow down for it to catch up. It annoys the hell out of me. But practice, practice, E D E D E D E D until my hand develops some sense. At least better than last week.

My focus is returning after my whirlwind trip to Toronto…I still have to write about that! Not sure what I am waiting for but I will post something soon. I guess I am still processing it, letting it all sink in – it is still somewhat surreal to me. One of those wonderful things that I dream about and am shocked when they actually happen – and then they are even better than imagined.

I am still dreaming of far away places. Airplanes, and strange descents over motorways. Buildings with stone steps. Shadowy people I know, but do not know when I wake up, they fade beyond reach. And that feeling of reaching towards something. And green, green, green. It doesn’t make sense, I know – but I can’t shake that feeling that somehow it does. That one morning I will wake up, and the day will present itself with the answer to what it was all about. Hopefully soon – I need more sleep.

I have been busy having a life away from the bench this weekend, so only ended up piercing a sterling keyhole – but have not finished the pendant yet…but I have other photos to share.

I played farm girl yesterday. Drill in one hand, and fencing holders in the other, I made my way round the pasture – a herd of curious ponies poking their noses into my business. The drill must be sniffed, the fence holders tasted and tugged. Sophie, the naughtiest of all creatures took it into her head to play tug of war with me over the bag of wire holders, (I won.), and spent a great deal of time shoving her little pony muzzle into my ear and neck when I bent down with threats to nibble (no thanks missie naughtypants!). But in the end the holders were installed and then the electric fencing rope as well. All attempts to push the fence down in order to reach the grass on the other side will now be foiled, and the daily task of replacing broken boards will be a distant annoying memory.

Today called for the beach. Summer sprang upon the Island, almost as if it lay in wait for the calendar to dictate its arrival. Last week was all shivers and sweaters, and fuzzy socks to warm toes. Today it was a balmy 26 C – it doesn’t get that much warmer here – and it was lovely. Sunshiney and full of ocean breezes. Molly ma Gog and Bean came along. It was Bean’s first outing to the beach, and she LOVED it. I wasn’t sure it was such a good idea to take her, our last old man Chihuahua did not much like the beach, and would huddle in a pitiful mess of shakes and shivers and look as miserable as a Chihuahua can make themselves – which is exceedingly. Little Miss Bean however, reveled in the piles of stinky seaweed, and the hot sand to sun and bake herself in. She ate heaps of stinky stuff, chewed on driftwood, and scampered about like Queen Bean. She did not swim, but I do not think she can, or at least I have never seen a Chihuahua swim.

Molly ma Gog swam and fetched, and swam and fetched – as happy as a lab can be. We strolled down the beach. I searched for stones and found a pink one shaped like a heart and I threw it into the water as far as it would go.  I was as happy as a K could be (which is happy indeed, with only a moment’s remembered wistfulness, which I threw into the waters after the stone). I remembered why exactly it was that I chose to move here, I felt again why this is home, and was glad to be reminded… 

 

 Miss Bean first sets foot on sand…

 

 

and promptly finds yummy stinky stuff to chew on…

 

Our beach is almost always empty – we were the only ones there…

 

Molly ma Gog and a “fetch-it”…

 

Molly in action!!!

 

Bean wants in on the action, yipe yipe yipe

 

tired after romping in the sea

 

Magestic Queen Bean rules the beach…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

the road home again…

 

 

The first of a 3 pendant series of keyholes that I am working on, exploring isolation. I pierced the copper keyhole, etched the eyeball onto the bottom panel and then riveted the two together with countersunk sterling silver rivets. The eye was oxidised and then polished to bring out detail. The keyhole was also oxidised and then brushed with a steel brush. I weathered the copper with a few dents as well, as I wanted it to look old and somewhat worn.

Keyhole #1: The Watchful Eye

 

 

 

The eye is deperate and wide open. It wants very badly. I wanted the desire to be somewhat open to interpretation. Is the watcher locked inside and desperately wanting out? Has the watcher locked themselves in, and is wary and frightened of what may be outside of the door? Or is the watcher an outsider trying to get a peek of what may lie on the other side? Are they locked out and desperate to come in?

The keyhole is the way through the door, a road into a different world than the watcher. Where is the key?

As for myself, I don’t know which watcher I am, only that I am somewhere among them, perhaps even more than one. Peering through at the possibilities before me, sometimes trapped and  frightened, sometimes defensive and resolute, often filled with longing…

I have been having dreams of flying. Of Paris for some reason, and airports. Obscure dreams of far off places. Blurry imprints of people on my soul that my mind grasps at , but slip through, evading clarity. The colour green? And a lurking feeling that follows me through the day, that these dreams are somehow important. A puzzle whose pieces slide away from each other until meaning is only implied, or felt, but not understood. They fill me with a longing, a sore heart…for what? I don’t know. But trying to shake them off doesn’t seem to work.

I am out of sorts again today. A  tumult of emotions. I want it to stop – to find that tightrope equilbrium. Perhaps it has been too long since I have been to the shore, to let the waves lick my wounds, and the sand cushion my feet.

the feather that falls
from the sparse branches above
irridescent coal dull gleaming, a speck
upon the sun that spins and
flares in a tumble of dark whimsy,
hitches my breath 

below the longing is thick
enough to hold this wish
aloft for longer than perhaps it should
before reaching the stability of grass, dirt
sandy red stones. and I am caught
there with it, in flight
looking out the window watching my descent
dreaming only of how to
return. 

Why, oh why did it take this long for me to discover Joseph Cornell? I came across his work today while exploring themes of loneliness, isolation, and letter writing today. I am bespelled.

 

Toward the Blue Peninsula….Joseph Cornell (1903-1972) (for Emily Dickinson)

It might be lonelier
Without the Loneliness –
I’m so accustomed to my Fate –
Perhaps the Other — Peace –

Would interrupt the Dark –
And crowd the little Room –
Too scant — by Cubits — to contain
The Sacrament — of Him –

I am not used to Hope –
It might intrude upon –
Its sweet parade — blaspheme the place –
Ordained to Suffering –

It might be easier
To fail — with Land in Sight –
Than gain — My Blue Peninsula –
To perish — of Delight –

Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

 

Cornell was a social recluse who spent his years mostly inside the confines of his house and his basement. He was the loneliest of the lonely. Longing for connection, but afraid and not knowing how to go about it. He filled his house with trinkets and treasures both fantastic and every day and used them to make his (now famous) shadow boxes. He would often send them to starlets that he admired…but was never able to connect with a real life love. I am intrigued, and will research more…

Mary Chapin Carpenter wrote the following gorgeous lyrics, inspired by him:

 Today Joseph is sitting alone, with occasional nods to the waitress
She tops off his cup while she’s snapping her gum, making her rounds on the lunch shift
Counting out coins, he leaves them arranged, in neat lines and circles and arcs
She just stares at the tip that spells out her name and ideas are like stars

And yesterday pedaling down 4th Avenue, between the stalls and the bookshops
The sepia tones of a lost afternoon cradled a curio storefront
And inside the air was thick with the past, as the dust settled onto his heart
And here for a moment is every place in the world and ideas are like stars

They fall from the sky, they run round your head
They litter your sleep as they beckon
They’d teach you to fly without wires or thread
They promise if only you’d let them

For the language of longing never had words, so how did you speak from your heart
Yet here is a box that swears it has heard that ideas are like stars

Tonight Joseph stood out in the yard, as Debussy played from the kitchen
Celestial companions `til mornings first lark, shone overhead and he listened
And who was that shadow there by the gate, who was that there standing guard
It was only loneliness, and loneliness waits, and ideas are like stars
Ideas are like stars