Verse & Vision: Whiskey Light

"Night time is really the best time to work. 
All the ideas are there to be yours because everyone else is asleep."  

~Catherine O'Hara

This is the fourth and final post about the pieces I created for the Verse & Vision show on now through June 25th, a collaboration between Wisconsin poets and the Gallery Q artists. You can read about the others here, here and also here.

I do my best work at night.

I often call this my "9 to midnight" job. And although I would love for it to be a full time gig, it is really more of a hobby gone wild. While my most fervent wish is to have daylight hours to create, I am certain that even if I had them, I would be doing most of my best work at night.

So when I read the poem by Josh Wussow called "Whiskey Light" I had this immediate image of the moon in my head. The sort of moon that hangs low in the sky like a big orange ball of light. The kind that is so close you can touch it, so real you can taste its creamy coolness.

I love the way the full moon paints the world with a touch of titanium white and a softer blue gray of the shadows. The trees look taller in moonlight with their limbs stretched out reaching over hills and valleys to touch each other like so many people holding hands.

But it was the last line of this poem that grabbed me and wouldn't let go. I knew that there had to be a lunar reference in this piece, but that last line begged to be incorporated as well. Full of double edged meaning, yet brimming with possibilities.

I thank Josh Wussow for penning these lines and for allowing me the honor of sharing them with you.

Whiskey Light

by Josh Wussow

The restless moon

has drawn me

into the calling dusk

My dull

whiskey light

a haze, etched in amber

hovers thick and

full

bodied

over yellowed streetlamps

and empty roads

I taste its essence

cool

in the quiet air

dash of dreams

pinch of sin

the tacit scent

of things

best done

by night

{Whiskey Light}

I am very proud of this piece. But it almost didn't happen.

This being the very first Verse & Vision collaboration, we had only from early February until mid-April to complete our art. That wouldn't be too terrible of a timeline if I didn't have traveling basketball, dance recitals, a trip to D.C. and the launch of my new 'simple truths' pendants happening at the same time. Not to mention all the dancer necklaces I did during those few weeks. 

I completed the first three and got them to the photographer for the book layout well before the deadline of April 20th. I just didn't have time to complete what I wanted to do for this one. 

I had sketched a design that looks nothing like this. With the mention of the 'haze, etched in amber' I had grandiose plans to etch a copper moon, add a bezel and then add some resin tinted amber to that focal. And that never happened. 

I was in the Gallery to pick up my pieces the first week in May to be sure that they were tagged and ready for the Gallery to hang them, when one of the committee members came to me in a panic: the poet would be there to read his poem that night and if I didn't make the art, there would be nothing to show for it. Would I still make the piece? Could I do it in time? That was Wednesday. All the pieces had to be logged in by Friday. 

I had committed to doing this piece but I had failed to make it a priority so that just about shattered me. Wearily, I said yes, I would do this. 

I went home that night and sketched a new design, one that wouldn't be etched and bezeled but that would show that I could completely fabricate a piece from start to finish.

I started with circles cut out of copper. I hammered texture and added some round bubbles to make the disks represent the phases of the moon. From just a sliver of the moon to full, you can see them all if you look closely.

But flat just wouldn't do, I wanted it to have a sculptural sense, and also movement. I had been studying the works of Calder and spirals are very prominent in his work, which was influenced by primitive artifacts. The construction of Calder's works are so kinetic. I wanted to attain a freedom of movement in my design. So I started with spirals of copper wire connecting each link through a riveted hole. Why not just leave the holes punched raw? That small rivet in each hole is a detail that puts a polished touch on the piece.

I crafted the swirl clasp to connect to a similarly embellished copper washer. I wanted no pre-fab parts to this design.

The central focal is a crescent moon with the last line of the poem 'things best done by night' and a solitary rough faceted carnelian drop in the perfect shade of whiskey. That stone is the only thing I didn't craft by hand.

Someone at the opening was interested in the piece and questioned why it was priced so high. It was then that I explained that I cut, filed, textured, stamped, riveted, dapped, coiled, hammered, patinaed, tumbled, polished and sealed every single piece on this necklace. From concept to completion, I did it all. I think she walked away with an appreciation for what I did that went beyond admiring it. And I also said that even if this wasn't the one for her, I could certainly apply those skills to something custom just for her.

I worked on this two straight nights working from 9pm to 2am. At 1am on the second day I almost thought to ask for an extension until Saturday so that I would have the extra day to finish, but then I decided that I was so close and I just kept going. I was beyond exhausted when I finished. But the important thing is that I completed it to hand in to the committee by noon on Friday.

They were stunned at what I created. But truthfully, so was I.

I guess it is true that I do my best work at night.

So, now it is your turn...

When do you do your best work? Are you more capable in the morning? Does your creativity ebb and flow throughout the day? Or are you a night owl like me?

Have you ever completely hand fabricated something? Do you bake from scratch... plant from seeds... or grow amazing kids? How does it feel to be the creator, the originator, the guiding force?

Do tell!

Enjoy the day!

Verse & Vision: Whiskey Light

"Night time is really the best time to work. 
All the ideas are there to be yours because everyone else is asleep."  

~Catherine O'Hara

This is the fourth and final post about the pieces I created for the Verse & Vision show on now through June 25th, a collaboration between Wisconsin poets and the Gallery Q artists. You can read about the others here, here and also here.

I do my best work at night.

I often call this my "9 to midnight" job. And although I would love for it to be a full time gig, it is really more of a hobby gone wild. While my most fervent wish is to have daylight hours to create, I am certain that even if I had them, I would be doing most of my best work at night.

So when I read the poem by Josh Wussow called "Whiskey Light" I had this immediate image of the moon in my head. The sort of moon that hangs low in the sky like a big orange ball of light. The kind that is so close you can touch it, so real you can taste its creamy coolness.

I love the way the full moon paints the world with a touch of titanium white and a softer blue gray of the shadows. The trees look taller in moonlight with their limbs stretched out reaching over hills and valleys to touch each other like so many people holding hands.

But it was the last line of this poem that grabbed me and wouldn't let go. I knew that there had to be a lunar reference in this piece, but that last line begged to be incorporated as well. Full of double edged meaning, yet brimming with possibilities.

I thank Josh Wussow for penning these lines and for allowing me the honor of sharing them with you.

Whiskey Light

by Josh Wussow

The restless moon

has drawn me

into the calling dusk

My dull

whiskey light

a haze, etched in amber

hovers thick and

full

bodied

over yellowed streetlamps

and empty roads

I taste its essence

cool

in the quiet air

dash of dreams

pinch of sin

the tacit scent

of things

best done

by night

{Whiskey Light}

I am very proud of this piece. But it almost didn't happen.

This being the very first Verse & Vision collaboration, we had only from early February until mid-April to complete our art. That wouldn't be too terrible of a timeline if I didn't have traveling basketball, dance recitals, a trip to D.C. and the launch of my new 'simple truths' pendants happening at the same time. Not to mention all the dancer necklaces I did during those few weeks. 

I completed the first three and got them to the photographer for the book layout well before the deadline of April 20th. I just didn't have time to complete what I wanted to do for this one. 

I had sketched a design that looks nothing like this. With the mention of the 'haze, etched in amber' I had grandiose plans to etch a copper moon, add a bezel and then add some resin tinted amber to that focal. And that never happened. 

I was in the Gallery to pick up my pieces the first week in May to be sure that they were tagged and ready for the Gallery to hang them, when one of the committee members came to me in a panic: the poet would be there to read his poem that night and if I didn't make the art, there would be nothing to show for it. Would I still make the piece? Could I do it in time? That was Wednesday. All the pieces had to be logged in by Friday. 

I had committed to doing this piece but I had failed to make it a priority so that just about shattered me. Wearily, I said yes, I would do this. 

I went home that night and sketched a new design, one that wouldn't be etched and bezeled but that would show that I could completely fabricate a piece from start to finish.

I started with circles cut out of copper. I hammered texture and added some round bubbles to make the disks represent the phases of the moon. From just a sliver of the moon to full, you can see them all if you look closely.

But flat just wouldn't do, I wanted it to have a sculptural sense, and also movement. I had been studying the works of Calder and spirals are very prominent in his work, which was influenced by primitive artifacts. The construction of Calder's works are so kinetic. I wanted to attain a freedom of movement in my design. So I started with spirals of copper wire connecting each link through a riveted hole. Why not just leave the holes punched raw? That small rivet in each hole is a detail that puts a polished touch on the piece.

I crafted the swirl clasp to connect to a similarly embellished copper washer. I wanted no pre-fab parts to this design.

The central focal is a crescent moon with the last line of the poem 'things best done by night' and a solitary rough faceted carnelian drop in the perfect shade of whiskey. That stone is the only thing I didn't craft by hand.

Someone at the opening was interested in the piece and questioned why it was priced so high. It was then that I explained that I cut, filed, textured, stamped, riveted, dapped, coiled, hammered, patinaed, tumbled, polished and sealed every single piece on this necklace. From concept to completion, I did it all. I think she walked away with an appreciation for what I did that went beyond admiring it. And I also said that even if this wasn't the one for her, I could certainly apply those skills to something custom just for her.

I worked on this two straight nights working from 9pm to 2am. At 1am on the second day I almost thought to ask for an extension until Saturday so that I would have the extra day to finish, but then I decided that I was so close and I just kept going. I was beyond exhausted when I finished. But the important thing is that I completed it to hand in to the committee by noon on Friday.

They were stunned at what I created. But truthfully, so was I.

I guess it is true that I do my best work at night.

So, now it is your turn...

When do you do your best work? Are you more capable in the morning? Does your creativity ebb and flow throughout the day? Or are you a night owl like me?

Have you ever completely hand fabricated something? Do you bake from scratch... plant from seeds... or grow amazing kids? How does it feel to be the creator, the originator, the guiding force?

Do tell!

Enjoy the day!

Verse & Vision: Angels Among Us

"If one looks closely enough, one can see angels in every piece of art."  

~Terri Guillemets

The third poem that I chose was more like the retelling of a time-worn story. 

(If you want to read more of my inspiration from the Verse & Vision show, please go to this post or this one.)

The styling of the poem was more in a paragraph with fleshed out ideas and sentences, but the poetry is really evident in the selection of the words in a way that forms a picture in your mind. That is the sort of poetry that really resonates with me. I can see and hear and smell and taste and touch every thing that is being written about. These words from Janet Leahy truly make my senses come alive.

In the Church Yard Beside the School House
by Janet Leahy

A boy in red boots is making snow angels with his

small body. Old ladies on their way to mass, fold

their arms around themselves to keep warm. The

boy jumps up, brushes snow from his jacket, smiles

with delight at the perfect forms carved into the snow.

Behind him the church bell tolls, a black hearse arrives,

carrying the most recent dead. Now the boy turns

to watch the procession of mourners. His eyes fix

on the people walking behind the casket, their arms

wrapped around each other. He knows something

of death, his grandfather, his dog Cyrano. He knows

when people die they need angels. As the church doors

close, he falls into the snow and spreads his wings.

patina-ed wings from MissFickleMedia (thank you Shan!)
sterling silver heart
snowflake cracked quartz rounds
black onyx irregularly faceted nuggets
sari silk wrapped beads with Swarovski crystals
hand made clasp from galvanized steel wire

***************************************************

I know something of death.

I remember vividly the day that my grandmother died. 

I was a smug 18 year old away at UW-Eau Claire for my train wreck of a freshman year. Coming home at Thanksgiving, my parents insisted that I go to see Bousha ('old lady' in Polish, but a term of endearment to us). I didn't want to go. While there, my dad asked me to address her Christmas cards. I did it, but grumbled as I went, each envelope met with a heavy sigh and rolling of the eyes. When the last envelope was addressed, I rushed to leave. She held my hand in hers and promised me to come home soon. Her cheek was soft and smelled of powder when I kissed her goodbye. 

That was the last time I ever saw Bousha.

Just two weeks later I made my way down the great hill from my dorm to my afternoon classes. On the way I made a detour to the bookstore and bought a card for Bousha. It was a Boynton with a funny little cat on the front.  I trudged through the wet snow that darkening Friday afternoon to the class I dreaded the most: algebra. I knew that if I made it through this class, the weekend could officially begin and finals would be the following week. Lots of studying to slack off on for sure.

I wasn't particularly engaged in this class. It actually felt like they were speaking a different language. As the minutes ticked by on the large clock above me, and the professor droned on like the teacher on Charlie Brown, I suddenly felt very anxious. Trying not to attract attention, I dug out the card for Bousha and frantically started writing her a letter, glancing back up at the clock with each word. I remember telling her over and over that I loved her. And also that I was sorry that I hadn't spent more time with her at Thanksgiving. Could this class get any longer? Could time tick by any slower? Stuffing the card into the envelope, scribbling her name and address, licking the stamp, I bolted out of my chair as soon as the clock struck 3:00 and raced down the hall to the lobby where the postman was just collecting the last mail for the day. 

I felt light and happy climbing that slushy hill. I didn't even care that the wind was biting into my bones. I felt at peace.

As day drew into evening, I was alone in my communal dorm room hanging white lights on the window, the sounds of Christmas carols coming from my clock radio. My roommates were across the hall giving Diane a perm in the bathroom. The phone rang. I was surprised to hear the voice of my older cousin Mike, who lived in Minneapolis. I only saw him at holidays and I didn't think he even knew I was at this college.

"Do you need a ride home?" Mike asked.

"Sure! That would be great. I have finals next week, but that would be so awesome because then my parents won't have to trek over here," I said. "When are you thinking of coming home?"

There was a brief and awkward pause on the other end of the line. 

"Uh... um... I thought you knew," said Mike in the most apologetic voice. "I'm sorry to have to tell you this, Erin. Grandma died this afternoon. I thought you needed a ride home tomorrow for the funeral."

Clunk.

The phone dropped to the floor and me with it. I may have managed to pick it up and tell him that I had to call him back. 

Grief gripped me and would not let go. I tried to stand but couldn't. Crawling across the hall, I leaned into the bathroom door and collapsed in heavy sobs on the cold, white porcelain tile. 

Diane rushed to me, hair dripping wet with the acrid smell of permanent solution piercing my nose, and grabbed me, holding me up in her embrace. 

The only words I could choke out between heaving sobs were, "Grandma... died... no!"

To this day, I cannot stomach the smell of a perm without that memory bubbling to the surface.

When my parents finally called it was with the realization that I had learned of grandma's passing in the most abrupt manner. As in a twisted game of telephone, the message was relayed all wrong. My parents had called Mike's dad to ask if he might possibly be able to bring me home, and they were waiting for that information before calling me with the news. But Mike didn't know and called me instead. It must have been awful for him to share that shocking news with me. I recall that the two hour car ride home to Stevens Point was mostly in silence. 

For the funeral, I was selected to carry in the half finished afghan that Bousha was crocheting. It was the softest cream colored yarn. She could knock one out in a day or two and everyone had one...every grandchild, friend and maybe even a few passersby. Each one had an embroidered tag that read, "Specially hand made by Grandma." This cream one never got that tag. I laid the unfinished masterpiece with the ball of yarn and the brightly colored crochet hook stuck in it on the top of the coffin. I don't recall anything else.

After the slow motion motorcade to the cemetery, I stood by the graveside that Saturday in the snow, my toes numb from the missing socks I forgot to pack in my haste, wishing to be rolled into my own blue and white herringbone blanket. 

Retreating to the warmth of my grandmother's house to go through the motions of selecting what to keep and what to give away, I heard the mail slot open. I wandered over to retrieve the small stack on the floor. And there it was: my card. 

I sat down on the mauve velour couch, the one that was only sat on during holidays, and opened the card. As I reread those words that I so hurriedly wrote, the emotions flooded me. I let the tears roll softly down my cheeks. Bousha never read these words, my apology at being so rude, my love for her.

But I think she knew.

I wish that I had kept that letter. I think that I likely threw it away because my emotions were so raw, and it was stunning to read it at that time. Plus, I didn't immediately connect that Bousha was guiding me that day.  I found out later that my parents were with her in the hospital when she died. And it was around 3:00 pm on Friday, the same time that I felt so frantic to get that letter posted. 

I do believe in angels. I believe that there are angels among us working to push us in the direction that we need to go, and supporting us when we feel that all is lost. It is not just astral spirits with wings and bright lights, but those that are among us working every day. They are in the checkout line at Copps Food Center when picking up the $20 bill that fell out of my pocket and giving it back to me... there is one that makes my coffee at Emy J's each morning named Mindy with a bright light of sweetness and an extra dose of happy to wake me up... I see them in each person who deposits a bag filled to the brim with food and toiletries at the special collections my church does for Operation Bootstrap... and I can see them on the television when they rush to help a local woman rebuild her horse barn and clean up her farm after the tornado that touched down not far from where I live. I believe that even when we least expect it there is an angel there watching out for us, those special guardians that we loved in life who are looking down on us from heaven, but they are just as certainly right around the corner or down the street keeping an eye on us. 

And sometimes we are called to be angels when we touch another person's life and make it better. 

I most certainly think that Bousha was reaching out to me to let me know that it would all be alright and that was why I had that sudden urge to contact her. And although it was my words in my hand writing that I read on that card that cold December day, I feel that really it was her telling me she loved me. Her first act as my guardian angel.

So now it is your turn...

Do you believe in angels?
Have you ever had an experience where you felt protected and loved but could not explain it?

Are you open to the possibility of angels among us?

How have you been an angel to someone else?

Do tell!

Enjoy the day!

Verse & Vision: Angels Among Us

"If one looks closely enough, one can see angels in every piece of art."  

~Terri Guillemets

The third poem that I chose was more like the retelling of a time-worn story. 

(If you want to read more of my inspiration from the Verse & Vision show, please go to this post or this one.)

The styling of the poem was more in a paragraph with fleshed out ideas and sentences, but the poetry is really evident in the selection of the words in a way that forms a picture in your mind. That is the sort of poetry that really resonates with me. I can see and hear and smell and taste and touch every thing that is being written about. These words from Janet Leahy truly make my senses come alive.

In the Church Yard Beside the School House
by Janet Leahy

A boy in red boots is making snow angels with his

small body. Old ladies on their way to mass, fold

their arms around themselves to keep warm. The

boy jumps up, brushes snow from his jacket, smiles

with delight at the perfect forms carved into the snow.

Behind him the church bell tolls, a black hearse arrives,

carrying the most recent dead. Now the boy turns

to watch the procession of mourners. His eyes fix

on the people walking behind the casket, their arms

wrapped around each other. He knows something

of death, his grandfather, his dog Cyrano. He knows

when people die they need angels. As the church doors

close, he falls into the snow and spreads his wings.

patina-ed wings from MissFickleMedia (thank you Shan!)
sterling silver heart
snowflake cracked quartz rounds
black onyx irregularly faceted nuggets
sari silk wrapped beads with Swarovski crystals
hand made clasp from galvanized steel wire

***************************************************

I know something of death.

I remember vividly the day that my grandmother died. 

I was a smug 18 year old away at UW-Eau Claire for my train wreck of a freshman year. Coming home at Thanksgiving, my parents insisted that I go to see Bousha ('old lady' in Polish, but a term of endearment to us). I didn't want to go. While there, my dad asked me to address her Christmas cards. I did it, but grumbled as I went, each envelope met with a heavy sigh and rolling of the eyes. When the last envelope was addressed, I rushed to leave. She held my hand in hers and promised me to come home soon. Her cheek was soft and smelled of powder when I kissed her goodbye. 

That was the last time I ever saw Bousha.

Just two weeks later I made my way down the great hill from my dorm to my afternoon classes. On the way I made a detour to the bookstore and bought a card for Bousha. It was a Boynton with a funny little cat on the front.  I trudged through the wet snow that darkening Friday afternoon to the class I dreaded the most: algebra. I knew that if I made it through this class, the weekend could officially begin and finals would be the following week. Lots of studying to slack off on for sure.

I wasn't particularly engaged in this class. It actually felt like they were speaking a different language. As the minutes ticked by on the large clock above me, and the professor droned on like the teacher on Charlie Brown, I suddenly felt very anxious. Trying not to attract attention, I dug out the card for Bousha and frantically started writing her a letter, glancing back up at the clock with each word. I remember telling her over and over that I loved her. And also that I was sorry that I hadn't spent more time with her at Thanksgiving. Could this class get any longer? Could time tick by any slower? Stuffing the card into the envelope, scribbling her name and address, licking the stamp, I bolted out of my chair as soon as the clock struck 3:00 and raced down the hall to the lobby where the postman was just collecting the last mail for the day. 

I felt light and happy climbing that slushy hill. I didn't even care that the wind was biting into my bones. I felt at peace.

As day drew into evening, I was alone in my communal dorm room hanging white lights on the window, the sounds of Christmas carols coming from my clock radio. My roommates were across the hall giving Diane a perm in the bathroom. The phone rang. I was surprised to hear the voice of my older cousin Mike, who lived in Minneapolis. I only saw him at holidays and I didn't think he even knew I was at this college.

"Do you need a ride home?" Mike asked.

"Sure! That would be great. I have finals next week, but that would be so awesome because then my parents won't have to trek over here," I said. "When are you thinking of coming home?"

There was a brief and awkward pause on the other end of the line. 

"Uh... um... I thought you knew," said Mike in the most apologetic voice. "I'm sorry to have to tell you this, Erin. Grandma died this afternoon. I thought you needed a ride home tomorrow for the funeral."

Clunk.

The phone dropped to the floor and me with it. I may have managed to pick it up and tell him that I had to call him back. 

Grief gripped me and would not let go. I tried to stand but couldn't. Crawling across the hall, I leaned into the bathroom door and collapsed in heavy sobs on the cold, white porcelain tile. 

Diane rushed to me, hair dripping wet with the acrid smell of permanent solution piercing my nose, and grabbed me, holding me up in her embrace. 

The only words I could choke out between heaving sobs were, "Grandma... died... no!"

To this day, I cannot stomach the smell of a perm without that memory bubbling to the surface.

When my parents finally called it was with the realization that I had learned of grandma's passing in the most abrupt manner. As in a twisted game of telephone, the message was relayed all wrong. My parents had called Mike's dad to ask if he might possibly be able to bring me home, and they were waiting for that information before calling me with the news. But Mike didn't know and called me instead. It must have been awful for him to share that shocking news with me. I recall that the two hour car ride home to Stevens Point was mostly in silence. 

For the funeral, I was selected to carry in the half finished afghan that Bousha was crocheting. It was the softest cream colored yarn. She could knock one out in a day or two and everyone had one...every grandchild, friend and maybe even a few passersby. Each one had an embroidered tag that read, "Specially hand made by Grandma." This cream one never got that tag. I laid the unfinished masterpiece with the ball of yarn and the brightly colored crochet hook stuck in it on the top of the coffin. I don't recall anything else.

After the slow motion motorcade to the cemetery, I stood by the graveside that Saturday in the snow, my toes numb from the missing socks I forgot to pack in my haste, wishing to be rolled into my own blue and white herringbone blanket. 

Retreating to the warmth of my grandmother's house to go through the motions of selecting what to keep and what to give away, I heard the mail slot open. I wandered over to retrieve the small stack on the floor. And there it was: my card. 

I sat down on the mauve velour couch, the one that was only sat on during holidays, and opened the card. As I reread those words that I so hurriedly wrote, the emotions flooded me. I let the tears roll softly down my cheeks. Bousha never read these words, my apology at being so rude, my love for her.

But I think she knew.

I wish that I had kept that letter. I think that I likely threw it away because my emotions were so raw, and it was stunning to read it at that time. Plus, I didn't immediately connect that Bousha was guiding me that day.  I found out later that my parents were with her in the hospital when she died. And it was around 3:00 pm on Friday, the same time that I felt so frantic to get that letter posted. 

I do believe in angels. I believe that there are angels among us working to push us in the direction that we need to go, and supporting us when we feel that all is lost. It is not just astral spirits with wings and bright lights, but those that are among us working every day. They are in the checkout line at Copps Food Center when picking up the $20 bill that fell out of my pocket and giving it back to me... there is one that makes my coffee at Emy J's each morning named Mindy with a bright light of sweetness and an extra dose of happy to wake me up... I see them in each person who deposits a bag filled to the brim with food and toiletries at the special collections my church does for Operation Bootstrap... and I can see them on the television when they rush to help a local woman rebuild her horse barn and clean up her farm after the tornado that touched down not far from where I live. I believe that even when we least expect it there is an angel there watching out for us, those special guardians that we loved in life who are looking down on us from heaven, but they are just as certainly right around the corner or down the street keeping an eye on us. 

And sometimes we are called to be angels when we touch another person's life and make it better. 

I most certainly think that Bousha was reaching out to me to let me know that it would all be alright and that was why I had that sudden urge to contact her. And although it was my words in my hand writing that I read on that card that cold December day, I feel that really it was her telling me she loved me. Her first act as my guardian angel.

So now it is your turn...

Do you believe in angels?
Have you ever had an experience where you felt protected and loved but could not explain it?

Are you open to the possibility of angels among us?

How have you been an angel to someone else?

Do tell!

Enjoy the day!

Verse & Vision: A Change in the Weather

"A lot of people like snow.  I find it to be an unnecessary freezing of water."  ~Carl Reiner

When I first sat down to read the verses submitted for the Verse & Vision project it was the dead of winter. There were many feet of snow covering the ground layered over ice. The landscape was bleak and lifeless. So I must have been seeking spring at that moment.

If there is one thing that I loved to teach when I was a 7th grade English teacher it was poetry. I prefer poems that transport me or have me saying 'aha' or are so filled with imagery that the words leap off the page and into my heart creating a picture more vivid than any photograph could ever be. 

I read all 62 poems in the bunch pretty rapidly. Partly because I only had so much time to read them all in one sitting, and also because I wanted the poems I chose to grab me and take hold of me at first glance. Plus, I knew it was first come-first served. And if a poem grabbed me at the first glance, then I knew that it was for me.

When I came to the poem "A Change in the Weather" I felt an immediate grab. I printed it out and started sketching my ideas immediately (sorry for the poor scan!).

When the poet, Joy Kirsch, read this verse on Friday, she prefaced by telling the story that back in January a slip of the tongue by a radio announcer sparked her imagination and she wrote these lines.

A Change in the Weather by Joy Kirsch

Early January

Ten below

The radio announcer misspeaks

"Today a chance of flowers"

Oh, yes, please

Give me pansies and peonies

Larkspurs and lilacs

Clouds of cosmos

Roses and more roses

Let the petals fall...

Like Rain

It wasn't until Joy was reading her poem, that I thought that she looked familiar. Turns out, she is a member of my church! It has been delightful to know her through her verse, and now we have an artful bond when we see each other on Sundays.

I am a big fan of pansies, my favorite flower, so that spoke to me right away. I wanted to have a pansy in my design, but that did not happen. However, my design is pretty close to the original drawing above. I originally thought that I would use vintage brooches in an explosion of colors with icy and snowy beads making up the other half. But as I was trying to make this, I just could not make the colors mesh.

But then one day I was at a local consignment shop (sadly going out of business) and there was the large white enameled bloom. I told the shop keeper what I was up to, but that is all that she had in stock. But I brought it home anyway and noticed that in my stash I had a lot of other white flowers. So that changed my direction a bit. 

You might recall that back in March I used a teaser of this piece in my Bead Table Wednesday post. The challenge for me was to get all of the vintage pieces to connect and also lay properly without being pokey. You see, unless the piece is already broken, I like to leave vintage things as they are. So each and every one of these pieces is wired to the next. So if the owner wants to remove the pins (especially should they become valuable in the future - none of them are now) then they can do that.

I present 'A Change in the Weather' inspired by the poem of the same name by Joy Kirsch. 

 Vintage petals

Frosted faceted glass beads for the snow

round bluish opalite coins for the cold

large irregular faceted clear quartz nuggets for the ice

I see this as a ravishing look for a bride, especially if she is also carrying one of these, which is similar to what Miranda Lambert carried down the aisle for her recent wedding that weighed in at over 4 pounds! This necklace is no shrinking violet either, but a complete stunner for the right bride (and for sale at the Gallery Q)!

So now it is your turn...

The weather can inspire so many different emotions. Have you ever been inspired by the weather to create something special?

Do tell!

Enjoy the day!

Verse & Vision: A Change in the Weather

"A lot of people like snow.  I find it to be an unnecessary freezing of water."  ~Carl Reiner

When I first sat down to read the verses submitted for the Verse & Vision project it was the dead of winter. There were many feet of snow covering the ground layered over ice. The landscape was bleak and lifeless. So I must have been seeking spring at that moment.

If there is one thing that I loved to teach when I was a 7th grade English teacher it was poetry. I prefer poems that transport me or have me saying 'aha' or are so filled with imagery that the words leap off the page and into my heart creating a picture more vivid than any photograph could ever be. 

I read all 62 poems in the bunch pretty rapidly. Partly because I only had so much time to read them all in one sitting, and also because I wanted the poems I chose to grab me and take hold of me at first glance. Plus, I knew it was first come-first served. And if a poem grabbed me at the first glance, then I knew that it was for me.

When I came to the poem "A Change in the Weather" I felt an immediate grab. I printed it out and started sketching my ideas immediately (sorry for the poor scan!).

When the poet, Joy Kirsch, read this verse on Friday, she prefaced by telling the story that back in January a slip of the tongue by a radio announcer sparked her imagination and she wrote these lines.

A Change in the Weather by Joy Kirsch

Early January

Ten below

The radio announcer misspeaks

"Today a chance of flowers"

Oh, yes, please

Give me pansies and peonies

Larkspurs and lilacs

Clouds of cosmos

Roses and more roses

Let the petals fall...

Like Rain

It wasn't until Joy was reading her poem, that I thought that she looked familiar. Turns out, she is a member of my church! It has been delightful to know her through her verse, and now we have an artful bond when we see each other on Sundays.

I am a big fan of pansies, my favorite flower, so that spoke to me right away. I wanted to have a pansy in my design, but that did not happen. However, my design is pretty close to the original drawing above. I originally thought that I would use vintage brooches in an explosion of colors with icy and snowy beads making up the other half. But as I was trying to make this, I just could not make the colors mesh.

But then one day I was at a local consignment shop (sadly going out of business) and there was the large white enameled bloom. I told the shop keeper what I was up to, but that is all that she had in stock. But I brought it home anyway and noticed that in my stash I had a lot of other white flowers. So that changed my direction a bit. 

You might recall that back in March I used a teaser of this piece in my Bead Table Wednesday post. The challenge for me was to get all of the vintage pieces to connect and also lay properly without being pokey. You see, unless the piece is already broken, I like to leave vintage things as they are. So each and every one of these pieces is wired to the next. So if the owner wants to remove the pins (especially should they become valuable in the future - none of them are now) then they can do that.

I present 'A Change in the Weather' inspired by the poem of the same name by Joy Kirsch. 

 Vintage petals

Frosted faceted glass beads for the snow

round bluish opalite coins for the cold

large irregular faceted clear quartz nuggets for the ice

I see this as a ravishing look for a bride, especially if she is also carrying one of these, which is similar to what Miranda Lambert carried down the aisle for her recent wedding that weighed in at over 4 pounds! This necklace is no shrinking violet either, but a complete stunner for the right bride (and for sale at the Gallery Q)!

So now it is your turn...

The weather can inspire so many different emotions. Have you ever been inspired by the weather to create something special?

Do tell!

Enjoy the day!

Verse & Vision: Home in the Hive

"Vision is the art of seeing what is invisible to others."

~Jonathan Swift

Friday was the opening event for the First Annual Verse & Vision exhibit at the Gallery Q in downtown Stevens Point.

I came to find out that this event was spurred into being by my show from last summer called "Inspired by..." where I interpreted the works of the artists at the Gallery Q through my jewelry. The artists that mounted this show wanted an event that would connect an even wider pool of Q artists with the community and be inspired by poetry. So the idea of Verse & Vision was born.

The idea is simple: have the artists at the Q interpret verses from Wisconsin poets through their medium. Two artists from our gallery put the plan in motion in December 2010. They thought that they might get about 50 poems submitted. They received nearly 300 entries from all across the state! A UWSP English professor and her upper level students acted as the jury committee and culled that number down to 62 poems.

Then they were brought to the artists at the Q and there was much excitement over the selection. We were allowed to read through the poems blind (no names attached) and choose those that spoke to our heart. It was first come, first served and so there was much wrangling among the artists. No more than two artists were allowed to portray each poem and overall 29 artists participated, some selecting more than just one. I chose four.

Then on Friday, during the 6th annual Arts Walk in the downtown, we invited the poets to come and read their verses. It was a packed house. A standing room only crowd. We had an after party that was well attended, and sold so much that we could scarcely close the till. The art and poetry will be on display until the end of June. And a book was made of the poems and the accompanying artwork. What a fine gift to give to someone who loves poetry and art!

The first time that I knew the authors of the poems I was drawn to was when they came up to read their lines. I was pleasantly surprised to have a connection to two of them.

I have spoken to the poets, or am in the process of speaking to them. I want to thank them for writing these powerful words. And I wanted to ask them if I could share their words to accompany my jewelry designs. I have a hearty approval from two of them, so I will share them first this week, and hopefully hear from the others.

This first poem is from Lesley Wheeler, who happens to be married to the son of a family from my church. Her husband is a musician and her parents are as well. In fact, I am a cantor at Newman Parish and her mother-in-law is the music director. Lesley and her husband Karl did live in New York but have since moved to Iowa, so Lesley might be the poet that traveled the farthest for this reading! I am delighted to share her work with you.

Home in the Hive by Lesley Wheeler

At home in the hive

of convergences, we

sit back and drink

lemonade from jars.

Cracks in the comb

reveal views of clipper

ship sails which pass

by slowly, decks laden

with crates of worry

disguised as treasure.

(P.S. I did take video of Lesley reading this, and I have my original sketches. I will try to add those later, but I wanted to get something out there today!)

And here is my interpretation:

Beautiful copper chain given a rich patina and the clipper ship silver clay button
by artist Shannon of MissFickleMedia

Brass bees

Honeycomb inspired gold sunstone quartz beads

Antique skeleton key

Ceramic honeycomb round by artist Kylie Parry

White linen yarn

So now it is your turn...
Has a poem ever inspired you? What was it - do share!
Is there a favorite poet that speaks to your heart?
Can you see the reference from poetry to art? I would love to hear your comments!

Enjoy the day!

P.S. Stay tuned for the rest of this week when I reveal the remaining poems and art jewelry.