Moonlight and Hysteria

Timberlake and the Trouser Snake

2011-11-22T13:00:00.000-08:00

Fair warning: This is going to be an "R" rated posting. If you are easily offended or have zero sense of humor, please close this blog and go back to your Kindle.

Alright... is it just us adults? Good.

Like you, I have fallen into the warped web of "Political Correctness". Everything I do is second guessed. Will I offend someone? Will this be censored? Trust me. This isn't such a far reach. I got my fingers slapped by a show censor as well as having several over-critical moms call me on the carpet about the inappropriateness of an image of Betty Page. In a bikini. Come on! A bikini on a pin-up icon from the 1950s?!?

It's rampant. A couple years back a local art gallery received a complaint. It seems that a VERY abstract painting of a reclining male nude inspired the ire of a toddler's mom. Understand, this painting was so abstract that you needed special glasses, a cheat sheet and a bottle of gin in order to see the offending organ. As a mother, I found this nit-twit's complaint laughable. This (of course) was her first child. A son. And as a mother of 3 boys, I can confidently tell you that boys will discover this fantastic new toy ALL BY THEMSELVES. They don't need a hysterical mother pointing at a slew of oil paints yelling "OMG... it's a PENIS!"

Last week, I settled down to watch "America's Next Great Artist" on Bravo. I love this show. I adore the energy and creativity. But last week, in a nod to street art, I found myself getting a bit wistfully envious. Two artist collaborated to make some randy tigers. As they giggled, they drew some whimsical penises. Wow. Talk about balls. (good pun, huh?)

I found myself wishing that I could do that. But the fear of offending that one-in-a-hundred person is a millstone around my neck. What if they revolk my artist license? Wait. Being an artist IS my license.

Enter Justin Timberlake.

It's one of my favorite viral videos. A SNL short of Justin swaggering around, wearing a suit and a gift wrapped box around his goods, singing about his "Dick in a Box" (excuse me... "**** in a Box" as the censors would remind us.) My mind wanders as it does. Could I make a tiny monster and name him Dick, and place him in a box? But then naughtiness gets the best of me. Why name a monster Dick when I can make the real McCoy?

So, I bought some boxes and some flesh toned socks. I made some small, cheerful penises so I now have my own Dick in a Box.

Censors be damned. Enjoy.

Warning: shallow water ahead

2011-07-29T14:32:00.000-07:00

I am gritting my teeth.

Once again, my life is being touched by shallow depths. Unlike most shallow water, which may carry a current of warmth, this one chills me. It's a water which bares no substance, nor does it quench any thirst.

It's the shallow depths of the beauty pageant world.

What is it about the beauty queen wanna-be that I find so repellent? Some of my readers may know a wonderful girl who proudly wore a homecoming queen tiara. Maybe you yourself were crowned. It isn't that rite-of-passage that has me so riled up. It's a grown woman squeezing a size 22 ego into a size 2 evening gown. it's the pageant-mom parading a young child before judges, quietly assuring them that while "it's inside what counts", the outside package had better sparkle more if they want to get ahead in the world.

I have known these women. Several of them... and pretty well as a matter of fact. They showed me nothing in their world that had me eager to drink that crystal-studded kool-aid. I knew the women in their personal lives as normal women; warts, pimples, body odor and all. I saw them scream at their kids, belittle their husbands and generally knock people down when it suited them. But, shine a spotlight on them and suddenly, they became the epitome of what they believed people believed them to be. Polished. Smiling. Gracious. Perfect.

Excuse my retching.

What drives an normal women to prove herself more desirable, more attractive, more intelligent, more talented, more (fill in the blank) than others around her? What pushes her to stomp on her competition's toes in her stiletto heels, while she holds that hand in "sisterly support"? What is missing from her life that she values the opinion of a faceless judge rather than cherishing the honest opinion of friends and family?

Yes? You in the back. I see you waving your hand. You are commenting that I simply must be jealous. This is what drives to to voice my feelings in this rant. Actually, there isn't a jealous molecule in my body.

There is something honest and true to working with your hands and heart. I don't wake up and look into a mirror to practice smiling. I don't practice answering questions in words that I feel would best suit another person. Instead, I put my soul into a piece of art. You are seeing the world through my eyes. And, you can either gasp with delight or gasp in horror. it doesn't matter to me. I am, first and foremost, being true to myself. You can see my life's journey. You can join me on that journey or you can slam the door to the vehicle. Whichever you wish, as I will travel this road with or without you.

Maybe together we should create the "Anti-Pageant". All contestants much be at least 18 years old. No moms allowed within 200 yards of the venue. No make-up. No hairstyles. Absolutely no cosmetic surgery. All clothing must be purchased from the local thrift store. All money saved from forgoing cosmetics and clothing would be donated to charity. Next: talent. No archaic, artifical abilites here. Extra points awarded to a woman who can rebuild a computer or change her own oil in her car. Then, it's question and action time ladies! The judges would ask them what they would change in our world.... then expect them to actually show us by her actions. Do you wish to banish hunger? Then, I expect to see you slinging a ladle in a food kitchen (without using it for a photo op!). No crown or prizes would be awarded to the winner. Instead, she could chose a worth charity.

And that, would be the definition of deep beauty. Certainly not shallow.

It Ain't Easy Being Green

2011-04-21T15:37:00.000-07:00

Erwin (an Escondido Humane Society rescue) reluctantly donates his winter coat to me.

Nothing like that proverbial "turd in the punchbowl" feeling that comes with seeing an official looking man with a clipboard, wearing an expression that says "Lady, I haven't smiled since I kicked that puppy across the street in Spring of '92". His eyes squint at my work as he asked me in a humor-less voice:

"So, tell me EXACTLY how you consider yourself green."

It's Earth Fair in Balboa Park, in America's "finest city" of San Diego. I am surrounded by thousands of people, browsing hundreds of booths. My neighbors include funky electric cars and vegan fare featuring, I am sure, free-range, no cruelty carrots. Not too many people seem to have a sense of humor... let alone one as warped as mine.

I guess people have come accustomed to 'Green = no humor factor'. To acknowledge being "green" is to plant on a holier-than-thou simper, and speak in a soapbox whisper.

Come on folks. Loosen up.

I took Mr Oh-So-Official on a tour of my booth. I pointed out that my sculptures are hand-made using recycled, sweaters, remnants and vintage fabrics. Almost all of it comes from thrift stores, garage sales and the occasional donation.

The felted wool-works that I show are especially "green". So many local students and farmers have the critter come shearing time, but no need of the fleece. I "rescue the wool" at shearing and then do all the skirting, scouring, dyeing, combing and carding *by hand*. Imagine nearly 200 pounds of wool rescued from local landfills!

How about my gorgeous and funky vests? Created with piles of useless neckties, even the buttons are recycled. I NEVER use "new" buttons. Where is the fun in that?

Finally, I pointed out my ceramic pendants. I use real leaves, flowers and seashells to capture the beauty of nature. You can't be any more green than that.

At this point, Mr "I Have No Humor" has agreed that I have earned my space at Earth Fair. I am indeed "green". But, I do have my twisted humor. I ask him excitedly "Come on! Don't you want to see my recycled cashmere zombies with the retractable guts?!?" He ushers a speedy "No thank you" like I had asked him to participate in a voodoo sacrifice and high-tails his clip-boarded self away from me.

Ok. It ain't easy being green. But it IS a lot of fun!

Don't chicken-shit.

2011-03-02T15:27:00.000-08:00

One recent evening, I found myself in an unexpected scene. I was sitting in a tiny restaurant in Pahoa, Hawaii with 2 of my dearest, long-time friends. We sat in a state of suspended-animation, with our breaths held, listening to a native song of longing and loss. All 3 of us threatening to burst into emotional tears at any moment.

Auntie Emily's song was haunting and beautiful. She sang it as a memorial to my friend Jamie's dad, whom she had just learned had been killed in a tragic motorcycle accident. After the last note had faded, Jamie gave Aunt Emily a hug. "You know, my dad had really wanted to ask you out. I had told him you were single and he told me that he would do it. But, he was chicken-shit and never got up enough courage. He was still trying to work up the nerve when he was killed."

Chicken-shit.

As my friends and I sat over our meals, I was struck with how strong a message this redneck phrase packs. How many times have we all gone chicken shit?

It's missed opportunity. Fear holding us back. Something that holds us back from the thresh-hold of what "could be". It's human nature that risk breeds fear of the unknown. But, without that risk, we cannot reap life's harvest.

Jim was a true character. A hard-riding, tough-talking rebel with a heart of unalloyed gold. No gathering was complete without a tale of Jim's antics. (How about a 70 year old man getting pulled over by an astonished cop for passing traffic while doing a motorcycle wheelie?) He was recently widowed by the passing his beloved Clara. But as life carries us forward, he started thinking about a future. Might that future include this strong Hawaiian woman? But, hesitation (read: chicken-shit) got the best of him. Now, a vibrant life cut short, with questions left unanswered.

I look to my friend Debi. A force-of-nature designer, she has spent several years auditioning for a well known designing show. Each year, she applies, auditions and dreams the dream. But, her dream has not been realized AS YET. But she knows that a rejection letter, while stinging, hurts a whole lot less that drowning your sorrows in a pint of Hagen-Das while screaming out at the TV "Hey I could do better than that... if I only had the guts to audition!"

Yes. I have been guilty of being a chicken-shit. But, the years (and grey hairs that I have seen in my mirror) have encouraged me to step up and take risk. It's allowed me to pour out my heart and soul into a piece, then submit it for judging. Yes, I have gotten a few of those stinging rejection letters, but I have also won ribbons and the occasional publication. I have stood outside more that a couple galleries, hyperventilating until I work up the courage and confidence to step inside and sell my work and talents. More often than not, the risk has paid off.

There is no gain without risk. There is no winning without some loss. And one of life's greatest lessons is to look it in the eyes... and not chicken-shit.

But... Bullshit. That, dear readers, is another post all together.

The incredibly beautiful final resting place of Jim and Clara Hurd.

Putting On Your Best Face!

2011-01-11T13:41:00.000-08:00

One of the most common comments I hear at my shows is the utter delight at my sculpture's faces. I really put a lot of thought into each character. I don't like that "generic" smile that is repeated on every single face. Indeed, all of my sculptures have their own personality, and I like their features to convey that.

As a means of sharing the process, I thought I would share a picture of a bunch of "yet to be born" sculptures. These 4 guys are nameless and without character. They are sewn and assembled... just waiting to make their debut.

All of my faces are needle sculpted by hand. Using an insanely long needle, I take infinitely tiny stitches and coax the fabric into folds and curves. Then, I use my special wool roving and needle felt eyes and features. As I work, each character begins to tell me his story.

Here are the results!

Meet Leland! Ever have that drunk beside you try to tell you a dumb joke, but blow the punchline every time? After a while, you can no longer feign politeness. Eye rolling is all but inevitable.

Meet Sven! Can be found at the lodge, hanging out with the ladies, attempting to impress them with tales of harrowing ski trips down the black diamond runs. (Truth be told: he has never gotten beyond the bunny slopes.)

Meet Sadie! A true lady. Drinks tea with her pinkie extended and is always on time with perfectly written "thank you" notes. But when she has had a bit too much Oolong, she has been known to shake her "groove thing" to vintage Disco.

Meet Harris! First, he slept on his freshly showered ears the wrong way that resulted in the mother of "Bad Ear Days". Then, he spilled coffee on himself. Since he was late to a very important meeting, he just pinned a button over the stain and is hoping for the best. Now, he just discovered his hot rod has a flat tire. Yup. It must be Monday!

"All In A Day's Hobby"

2010-12-03T15:27:00.000-08:00

There it was again. The word that sets my teeth on edge. The "H" word. As in... "You don't work, you have a hobby." My hubby gave me an apologetic smile. He knows this will set me off. I dryly replied that if the person in question thought it was such a hobby, then maybe he should come do a show with us.

As if that would happen.

But, as I sit here, I am aware that there are people who can't seem to break out of the "nine-to-five" mindset. My chosen profession must seem alien to someone whose job takes them no farther than the copier to the coffee pot.

Allow me to enlighten.

A hobby: The alarm goes off... oh, who am I kidding. There is no alarm. You wake up when you wake up. A job: You wake up in the dark. It's 4 am. You sigh. There is no point of going back to sleep when the alarm is set to go off in 30 more minutes.

A hobby: You decide what to wear. Maybe suit the weather, or maybe suit your mood. It's not too important. A job: Get up and check the weather online. Your choice will be based on this. It's cold. Wear multiple layers, boots, gloves, hat, coat. If it's a night show, bring a blanket. Nope. It's going to be hot. Wear something that won't show the sweat stains too bad. Remember the sunscreen. Try to look semi-put together. Now, decide if you can move in either ensemble. Can you bend? Lift? Sit without exposing any unseemly bits? Can your shoes get you from point A to point B? Wait. It's a costume show. Drag out the appropriate costume and as you tighten that corset or fight those crinolines, you wonder why in the hell anyone EVER dressed like this.

A hobby: It's lunchtime! You pass a favorite restaurant and pull in for a bite to eat. A Job: You choose a drive thru. Your menu choice will be based on the easiest to eat while driving. Eat quickly while navagating traffic. Don't spill any on that carefully chosen outfit. Ration all drinks as there is no easily accessible bathroom at the venue. (Yes. This includes rationing coffee at 4am). OR... pack a lunch for your venue. Be too busy to eat. Pack up, drive home, eat ravenously while standing in your kitchen.

A hobby: Buy the latest and greatest toy to play with. A job: Drool over the latest toy. Dream. Then take your hard-earned cash and buy office supplies, retail paraphenalia, licenses, commissions, taxes and fees. Buy needed and neccessary supplies. Buy a bag of groceries with what is humbly left over.

A hobby: Settle down in bed. Grab the remote to the TV and start to watch that late show you've been wanting to see. A job: Crawl into bed. Balance 2 dogs, one cat, one husband, a book on new techniques, and your sewing project. See that the clock reads 9. Sigh. Place sewing back into the pile, arrange animals, kiss hubby and go to sleep. You have a 4:30 wake up for a show in the morning!

The Joys of Being Generic

2010-11-09T08:11:00.000-08:00

You have to remember the 80's to really understand what "generic" means. Imagine turning your shopping cart down the aisle of your favorite supermarket. Suddenly, you were shopping in a Orwellian nightmare. Every can, box and package bore a white label with stark black lettering. Imagine the horror of generic Spam... a white label with black text announcing the contents as "processed meat product". You get the idea.

People can be generic. This term coined by a good friend describes someone wrapped in a plain white label. It's the person who is a doppelganger to a total stranger. A case of mistaken identity.
I am generic. Always have been. I have that neutral look that always reminds someone of someone else.

It almost got me in trouble at beauty school. I was the spitting image of a gal who stole the boyfriend of another student. I swore this chick stalked me! She showed up at the fast food restaurant where I worked and stood by the door, shooting visual daggers through eyes of hate. You can imagine the tension! It wasn't until the same girl showed up as a fellow student at school and learned my name, that her hatred turned to sheepish embarrassment.

As awkward as that was, it was nothing compared to the episode of a "walk-in customer" at a salon where I worked. I walked up to introduce myself, only to see her face drain to white. I looked identical to the woman's murdered niece! Now that is creepy.

Even my husband is generic. Like all good hairdressers, I kept a picture of my handsome boyfriend tucked into a corner of my mirror. One customer became incensed. She started to drill me about his name and how I knew him. Each question becoming more and more accusatory. You can guess it. Mark looked exactly like the woman's philandering son-in-law. Once the truth came out, I never saw her humiliated face again.

I guess the gist of this post is how basic characteristics remind us of someone we know. A white label marked as "person". As I started this particular sculpture, I wanted to play with a mustache. But, a 'stache this full and luxurious must come at a price. Hence, the narrow rim of hair. As I stitched in the narrowed eyes, it struck me. I knew this person! He looked exactly like my high school social studies teacher! Just to be certain, I contacted a few high school friends. As I had expected, they agreed that it looked exactly like Mr. Baggett.

I really enjoy putting this piece out for display. Everyone knows someone who looks like this. From a high school teacher, to a beloved uncle, to the man who works at the local supermarket, he strikes a chord in our memory.

Sometimes, it's a pleasure being generic.

Name: Mr. Baggett

Occupation: High School Hedwig

Contents: Remnant and recycled fabrics.

ZOMBIES ATTACK!!!

2010-09-18T17:54:00.000-07:00

Life is too freaking short not to have some fun. In a world full of hate, misery, unemployment and shortage of coffee, we have to learn to look at things around us and see the humor.

So, why zombies?

I actually took one of my zombies on a recent visit to my shrink. A lifelong battle with depression has shown me that even a small giggle is a triumph of existence. Besides, I actually wanted to see if he would insist that I be locked up in a padded room, once he saw one. To his credit, he was actually intrigued. His opinion was that during dark times, people gravitate to darker images. Hence, the latest zombie flash mobs or a possible explanation of teen girls screaming "Team Edward"!

I like zombies. Think of it! You could mindlessly eat whatever you want and not worry about any consequences!!! Brains? Hell no. I'm headed for an extra thick brownie sundae with oodles of hot fudge.

Name: Ron Zombie

Hobbies include: grunting, moaning, staggering and bleeding out of various body orifices.

Status: Currently up for adoption (or renting out body parts)

Therapy Doll: "Not Me!"

2010-09-18T17:41:00.000-07:00

Anyone who has a child knows this demon well. He is in charge of all mischief in a family's home. Who poked a hole in the wall? All children involved will yell "Not me!".

Who ate the entire bag of chocolate chips? "Not me!"

Anyone care to explain how my makeup ended up smeared all over the bathroom floor? You got it. "Not me!"

(Soon to be followed by his brother: "He did it!")

Therapy Doll: "Mary Has A Snit-Fit"

2010-09-13T10:57:00.001-07:00

Some days, a situation leaves you speechless. But this day, I actually WAS speechless! A recent bout of strep throat left me without a voice. But as fate would have it... this is one day that a voice would have been most helpful.

I answered the ad for a local shop specializing in vintage, recycled and art. Boy, sounds like my kind of place. And just down the road too! So, I popped in to absorb some inspiration, and perhaps drop a bit of cash.

There I met Mary.

My years of hairdressing immediately grasped a head of hair, bleached to the end of its life. Heavy "cat's eye' make-up accentuated her suspiciously narrowed eyes. But her physical appearance was nothing compared to the waves of animosity that flowed from her petite fame. She had recognized me as being a vendor from another local show. Ok... there is nothing wrong with that. As an artist, I maintain a monthly curcuit of 5 to 7 shows. But this pushy pansy started to accuse me of showing up to her show merely to steal her ideas.

My whispered voice did nothing to match her frantic screech. After a good 5 minutes of her diatribe I was able to cut in to my defense. I asked her if she remembered my work. While I doubt that she actually did, she claimed that she knew it well. I then asked her in my scratchy voice, how in the hell would someone that specialized in cashmere zombies with exposed brains compete with "romantic french country"? Unable to answer, she huffed off. The encounter leaving me with the makings of...

Title: "Mary Has A Snit Fit"

Contents: Cashmere sweater, wool sweater, "green" wool roving

Status: Adopted by a very brave, patient woman. I wish you luck.

Exactly... what does an artist look like?

2010-08-30T15:17:00.000-07:00

I was standing in front of my local thrift store, basking in the warm glow of people admiring my work. I had brought in a few samples for the shop manager to see, so she would know what I did and what supplies I was looking for. Quickly a small crowd had gathered and my work was getting the "oooh and Ahh" treatment. We artists live for this moment. Then the comment came, unexpected, like sitting on a loud woopie cushion at a proper English tea.

"Wow! These are amazing! I had no idea you were so talented. You just don't LOOK like an artist!

Rapidly, I felt the glow leave me and be replaced by a prickle of irritation. I drew upon my 20+ years of customer service training to thank her for her kindness while hiding my annoyance.

As I packed away my work and left the store, I had to ask myself. What, exactly, does an artist really look like?

Is it like my art friend Valerie Bailey? A fiesty senior citizen, she wears her long white hair in a tidy braid. Her long flowing skirts are in a crazy quilt of satin and velvet, topped by a dark hat.

Is it like my art friend Pam Pitts? By far one of the best lampwork artists I have ever met, Pam's tiny frame is accented in baseball caps, blue jeans and hippie-chic tye-dye t-shirts. This suits her fave phrase of "Far out!"

Is it my Art Friend Debi Beard? Pretty and petite, she looks wonderful in soft and romantic vintage clothes. A class act.

Or, is it my favorite Rottengirl Keri Stanton? Her exotic features accentuated in a Gothic "Alice in Wonderland' dress.

My point is: exactly what the hell is an artist supposed to LOOK like?

I made a decision a while back that I no longer owed anyone a specific "look" to suit their views of what I should be. At fourty-freakin'-four I have earned that right. Granted, I never show up at a show in a t-shirt and sloppy shorts (I have seen it folks!) but neither do I feel I need to try to totter across a grassy yard, setting up a 10 by 10 canopy while waring 4 inch heels. My plus-size frame deserves comfort these days. As a former hairstylist, I have smelled enough chemicals to know that there is glory in salt-and-pepper hair and I wear my white streaks proudly. I enjoy wearing something offbeat to give the element of surprise, like showing up at a 4th of July show with an electric blue wig. But, I am just as home in a simple dress with my hair pulled back into a ponytail.

So, I have to ask. Does the dress make the artist? Or does the artist wear the dress?

Leucadia Artwalk!

2010-08-09T08:17:00.000-07:00

It's that time of year again!

Time to get a bit sandy and revel in the surf. Then, come absorb the fun and funky vibe of the Leucadia artwalk!

I love doing this show. This year, ALL participants were juried, so you can be assured that everyone is a wonderful, talented artist in their own right. No mass produced imported junk here. Oh no. just the best that San Diego has to offer.

This year, I am again in the parking lot of Le Papagayo. Leucadia Artwalk will be held on August 29, from 10am to 5pm. Come say hello and check out my latest creations!

All That We May Leave Behind

2010-07-16T14:04:00.000-07:00

My necklace "Autumn's Song" will be among that I leave behind

The lady at the estate sale gave me a brave smile. "Everything is for sale, even inside the house. My parents have both passed and we need to clear things out." I gave a quiet condolence and asked her how she was doing. Her eyes immediately got misty. "I am doing well. In fact, I haven't cried for weeks. But when I came over this morning, I came across funny little objects that remind me of my mom and I start to cry all over again."

As I sorted through the boxes and rooms, a few things started to come out. The daughter must have been a majorette 'way-back-when', as boxes of trophies and competition programs were found. And judging by the boxes of sequins, trims and beads, most of her costumes must have been lovingly sewn by hand.

Back home I started sorting through my new treasures. I found some of the most beautifully beaded vintage trim that I have ever seen. A few glass beads were found carefully tucked away in a medicine bottle from 1985. Some tiny plastic babies gave me a smile. A teddy bear trivet was too saccharine for my taste so I will pass it off to another. A sealed bag of sequins shows that we shop at the some Los Angeles trim store.

And its here that I began to lose myself in thought.

When we die, we know we leave our earthly possessions... no matter how hard we may cling to them. Heirlooms may trigger wars between brother and sister. Appliances and cars are sold off. Houses vacated and placed on the market... the resulting profits carefully divided between family. But in almost every case, it seems that these lovely vintage treasures of beads, findings and supplies are simply boxed up and cheaply sold, if not given away. They seldom have a sentimental value, and frequently, not much of a monetary value as well.

I am now starting to sort my new pretties for use in my studio. I pour myself a cool drink to ward off the hot summer day and somewhere in a different realm, I am introduced to another artist. It's almost like she is there beside me. I can hear her tell me about the cute outfit she made her daughter using the gold sequins. The fantastic sale she found on embroidered patches... at a quarter each, she couldn't resist buying a dozen. I can hear a soft laugh as she tells me as she tells me about a partially made set of earrings that she tucked away in disgusts as she couldn't get the beading to lay flat. Those plastic babies were from a baby shower and she couldn't bear to part with any extra, since they were so cute.

It's a language that all artists understand... but those of us who work in vintage and antique media are the most fluent. We love and appreciate these treasures. You can't find these in aisle 3B at Michaels after all.

You can't help but wonder about your own mortality at these times. While my finished designs may be sought by a future grandchild, I can't help wonder about the supplies that I will leave. The scores of antique buttons. The tiny faience beads that adorned an ancient mummy and now sit behind a glass frame. My hand-made molds for my ceramic pendants. All the things that make my art and soul my own.

I wonder if my sons will host an estate sale. Will a future artist find my supplies as compelling as I do? And will we have a mystic conversation about the things that I may leave behind?

New Show!

2010-06-22T10:03:00.000-07:00

I am pleased to announce a new show for Lume di Luna Designs! Starting next month, every 2nd Sunday we can be found at the Leucadia Farmer's and Artisan's Market, at Paul Ecke Elementary School, from 10am until 2pm. This is a wonderful venue! We are surrounded by talented artisans, fresh organic produce and yummy international foods. Mark your calendars!

Eat dessert first.

2010-06-15T12:35:00.000-07:00

Another 2 sculptures find a new home!

When we are at the age when it is time to chose our career paths, the advice is always the same: Do something that you love.

Such a no-brainer, isn't it?

But some things in life are never that simple. I was raised in an environment where work automatically meant some kind of sacrifice. To be truly employed, you must have an undercurrent of dislike and toil. To paraphrase my hubby's beloved Pink Floyd... "You can't have any pudding until you eat your meat."

To me; art has always been dessert of the best kind. Something decadent, sweet and sticky. But all good girls know that you must eat those yucky green veggies before you get your dessert.

So, for years, art was the last thing on my extensive "to do" list. Dishes must be washed, floors swept, family obligations met... to clean my plate as it were... so I could get to that dessert of creativity. And as any mom of 3 boys will tell you, a mom's plate is never clean.

But slowly, I started sneaking in small tastes. How could something so wonderful as artistic expression be wrong? With my husband's encouragment I began to branch out. The seeds took root and began to grow. Before I knew it, my art was not a forbidden treat. Instead, it became water to my spirit. Something that if I denied it to my parched soul, I would wither.

Now, in the 44th year of my life, I understand! If we make that choice to follow our hearts instead of our sacrifices, we will grow. I never imagined the feeling of deep satisfaction as my humble sculptures become treasured possessions, or my delight when someone tells me of the compliments they get when wearing my pendants.

Life is short. Eat dessert first.

Good Guys Wear Black

2010-06-06T18:39:00.000-07:00

Here, Tina cradles my Marilyn Manson doll

I have to confess, I was stunned speechless (a rare thing for me) when I spoke to my longtime acquaintance. "Why would you want to talk to Goths?" she asked me. "All that black! We are a visual society and they should know how evil they look!" Another person chimed in "You know, they all worship the devil!"

I was bitterly disappointed in them. They were buying into a terrible stereotype and an ignorant one at that. You see, they didn't know about one of San Diego's most powerful and positive forces: The Gothic Volunteer Alliance. Fortunately I do.

I saw my first Goth when I moved to San Diego nearly 17 years ago. My husband pointed out a couple of black clad girls and commented that he didn't know it was Halloween yet. But I was entranced. For one: it looked like fun. I loved their expressive dresses! A part of me felt wistful. How I wished to be 17 again, dressed in their black Victorian lace.

As I have matured and found my artistic muse, I discovered that had I been born in another time, and raised in a more tolerant community, I would have been Goth. So much of my work hearkens to my dark humor. I have been known to spend hours in old cemeteries, straightening flowers and touching the stones. My music of choice ( HIM, AFI, Marilyn Manson) doesn't sit well with most of my contemporaries, who brand it evil. So, I have cloaked my Gothic soul and share it with few.

A couple of years ago, I was cruising the Internet and came across the most incredible group called the Gothic Volunteer Alliance. Troubled by recent violence, both locally and abroad, they had banded together to raise awareness and tolerance. The held fundraisers for charity. They cleaned local beaches. They were amazingly civic-minded and were determined to raise a positive profile to the community.

Yeah.... right. Evil devil-worshippers indeed. Somehow the words of the 2 well-dressed society ladies seemed far more poisonous to me. In a world where we deem everyone of equal worth, why does our choice of something as trivial as dress or music seem to threaten some people?

Sometimes, the good guys wear black.

http://gothicvolunteeralliance.org/about.php

My Little Gypsy Wagon

2010-05-24T10:00:00.000-07:00

I love doing my shows. But sometimes, being just another vendor in a sea of white EZ-Up canopies can be a drag. This is especially true when it is a family business. My sons are exposed to the constant drill of my "Show Rules" which for them must be especially boring.

So, once in a while, I take on a show with something exciting, making it more of a "working holiday" for all involved. maybe its at the beautiful Tierra Miguel Organic Farm where they can run through the fields and catch bugs. Perhaps, the Music Festival at Poway Heritage Park where they can play in the creek, watch the little trains and listen to wonderful music (the Marine Jazz Ensemble is the BEST). It becomes less of a job and more of a family day out.

This year, it hit me that my sons were getting older ( as in, I will have a teenager this year!) and chasing butterflies in the meadow just isn't "cool" anymore. That is when the idea hit me...

Renaissance Fairs!

Our first Renaissance Fair brings back amusing memories to my husband and I. With a fresh engagement ring on my finger, I convinced him to take me to one. Oh lord... Mark was not happy. He moped the entire drive. He dragged his feet to the entrance. He walked through those gates like a man condemned. But, then the energy caught up with him. Fresh strawberry shortcake with real whipped cream? (Sounds yummy!) A chance to learn how to shoot a real bow and arrow? (Why not!) Pretty girls with heaving bosoms laced into tight corsets? (No comment.)

So, it didn't take much convincing when I suggested to my endearing hubby that a Renaissance Fair might be a perfect venue for my handmade ceramic pendants. Our only challenge would be logistics. It doesn't make much sense to lease a full booth space, as the fees are usually steep and I didn't know how to arrange our wares appropriately. Upon research, I discovered the terms of a "wandering vendor". Fees are generally much lower, with the added advantage of following the crowds. But how can we manage to do this, when juggling 3 kids, mom's Fibro and a mess of necklaces?

Become Gypsies.

If we could design a wagon that would allow us to display my wares, while hiding the necessities like food and comforts, plus be beautiful to boot, we could manage this!

The first step is designing a wagon that would be functional. Another point: it had to fit into a Sienna minivan. Finally, it had to be sturdy since I had no plans of making multiples!

I purchased a good quality garden cart with a metal frame and large wheels. Then I designed a plan that would allow us to dismantle the cart for transport. Mark constructed a wood box that would sit inside the cart frame. We allowed areas for posts which would display our inventory and an interior to carry all of our supplies. I then chose a paint palette that would be bright enough to attract attention, yet still be historically accurate. A set of shutters was sacrificed to close off the storage area.

I used a selection of both new and re-purposed fabrics to construct a skirt that would hide the wagon base. A carefully placed velcro base makes it removable. Then, a tiny table was added for business transactions. I painted the wagon to include an acorn theme and she was named Lady Fortune.

We had carefully considered all ways for he use. After a bit of consideration, I even painted the interior, which in the proper setting, could be used for display. I am still a bit reeling by the amount of time, energy and money she took!

Lady Fortune made her professional debut at the Mermaid's Mercantile in Solana Beach on May 23, 2010.

New Website Update!

2010-05-20T08:53:00.000-07:00

I will be the first to admit that I am terrible with keeping my website updated. Truth is... I would rather be in my studio, iPod cranked, working on my next Big Creation than hunched over a keyboard, swearing in frustration.

But, as Lume di Luna grows, I realize that having a website will be a necessity. I meat so many great people from all over the world, and they ask if they can purchase additional items online.

Uh oh.... no more excuses, I guess.

So, I am working on a new website. It will feature new works, as well as some of my former creations. I will also have an Online Boutique that will feature one-of-a-kind works for purchase.

Stay tuned!

Art Therapy (or... "The continued adventures of Muscle Head and Monkey Boy")

2010-05-07T14:04:00.000-07:00

Art can be powerful therapy. Taking our inspiration from emotions, events and those around us, we can artistically translate how we see those events. Unless you ask me (or I volunteer) people may not be aware that the cute sculpture they hold in their hands is actually an event that struck me, or someone who I felt the need to take down a notch in a very passive-aggressive manner.

Meet Muscle Head and Monkey Boy. Two not-so-nice (or smart) people who became hilarious sculptures.

I show at a San Diego tourist hotspot. Along with bona fide artists and vendors, a couple of modern Snake Oil Salesmen have joined us. Selling, of all things, special power-increasing hologram bracelets. According to them, they will improve balance, increase stamina, raise the dead and so forth. After watching these body-building, steriod-filled dunces for a few weeks a few things became very apparent:

1) P. T. Barnum was right. A sucker is born every minute. These men stage a huge show on unsuspecting tourists... having a customer stand on one foot and allowing them to pull on their shoulder. Of course, the poor schmuck will lose balance. Then the magical bracelet is placed on their opposite shoulder and the muscle-men pretend to pull with all their might. Ok. If these things really work, why aren't people allowed to have their companions attempt to test their balance? But, the poor schmoes shell out $35. (They don't hear the derisive laughter that I hear as they walk away!)

2) Big and dumb do go together. Both these guys are muscle bound body builders. In fact, the man nicknamed Monkey Boy has gained this moniker by us other vendors since his large chest muscles don't allow his arms to rest at his sides, giving him a simian posture. But, all that blood flow to the biceps has deprived their brains. One day I overheard them talking excitedly about a televised mixed martial arts fight, being held in Abu Dabai. Monkey Boy wanted to know where Abu Dabai was. Muscle Head boastfully informed him "Somewhere in India."

3) They are rude and obnoxious. If you stand in front of their booth, their speech is peppered with 'yes sir / no ma'am" (Muscle Head likes to pretend to the right crowd that he is a Marine on stand-by). But if anyone disagrees with them or their hard-sell technique or questions the validity of their claims, be prepared to be shouted down, belittled or intimidated. Being a professional with 25 years in customer service, this REALLY ires me.

After seeing the latest customer grab her group and rush off while being screamed at, I tried to calmly (key word there!) let Monkey Boy know that this was bad business and unacceptable to me. I got a heated "Oh yeah? Well this is MY business and I can do whatever I want."

Well, guess what? I am an artist and I can create whatever I want!

Name: Muscle Head
Created: May 5, 2010
Biography: More brawn than brains, he runs around with his magic bracelet, hooting a lot. Harbors a secret desire to dance Bollywood routines in Abu Dabai.
Contents: Cashmere sweaters, wool, recycled ribbon and button
Status: Ready for adoption

Name: Monkey Boy
Created: May 7, 2010
Biography: An ape with an attitude. Screeches and flings poo at random. But at night, when he thinks no one is watching, he plays with his banana while singing Celine Dion songs.
Contents: Cashmere sweaters, wool blanket, recycled ribbon and buttons
Status: Currently at Stampington Press ("Stuffed" magazine) for publication submission.

Ugly (and twisted) humor

2010-05-06T08:36:00.000-07:00

"Wow. That looks intriguing..." I thought as I opened the link someone had thoughtfully sent me. An ugly necklace contest?

Anyone who knows me knows that I do competitions. It's a great way to spread my creative wings and allow my mind to wander down varied paths. My works have been featured in Bead and Button, Fire Mountain Gems, Art Doll Quarterly and in the upcoming "Best Jewelry Artists of America vol 2". But these works were carefully orchestrated to be visually pleasing. Could I really make something intentionally ugly?

But the timing was perfect. It was in the post-holiday funk when my business was slow and I had some spare time. Why not?

So, I mulled it over during my morning cup of coffee. In order to be ugly, it would have to have some kind of ugly component. Preferably repulsive. Then it hit me!

Tampons.

What is it about tampons that hit us so high on our heebie-jeebie meter? When you think about it, there is nothing so bland and benign as a small roll of cotton with a small piece of cotton twine.

It's certainly sterile and void of any outstanding characteristics. But the sight alone causes most women to shudder.

Just think about those commercials! That's why I adore the new Playtex commercial. The one with the yowling cat. The blue liquid... God forbid it should be a red (and therefore realistic) color! And how I hate that P&G phrase "Have a happy period". Honestly... the only woman happy to see her period is a woman who fears a pregnancy!

But it's those primal connections that cause us to advert our eyes should we see one laying on the floor. The fear of embarrassment and humiliation if we have to carry an "emergency back-up" to a restroom (the last time I did this, I tucked it into my bra to avoid it being seen!). And don't even ask my mortified reaction when my husband pointed out that my Chihuahua Stanley had enjoyed a "mom-flavored lollipop" in the corner of the bedroom.

With this in mind, I set out to make my menstrual monstrosity. I bought 2 boxes of cheap tampons (why use the good ones?) and raided my studio for anything ugly and/or offbeat.

A pink safety razor. A bullet casing. a plastic cockroach. Everything woven together in the most unattractive fashion. To seal the deal I found a plaster duckie and inscribed it with that despised "happy period" phrase and tied it off with a tiny hangman's noose.

Now, comes the really ugly part. Finding a model who could be blackmailed into wearing this thing. Someone who had an enormous amount of favors to return. Someone who could show the proper disgust needed when draped in purple tampons.

My husband.

After an approach, with the proper amount of bribery and blackmail he agreed. The picture was taken. The initial judgement was rendered. Then, the notification: We are in the semi-finals and in the running for the Ugliest Necklace!

http://blog.landofodds.com/2010/04/27/semi-finalists-announced-ugly-necklaces/

Voting starts June 1st!

And in the beginning.... she started to blog.

2010-05-05T12:07:00.000-07:00

It's difficult to say what compels us to bare our souls. What face we show to our friends, family, even a total stranger. I share my soul through my art. But, after much coaxing by my friends, I have decided to also start to share my life through the written words of a blog.

I am sure that someone is reading right now thinking "What the hell?!? What does moonlight have to do with hysteria?" But to me, it is a simple play on words, nodding to the craziness of my business, Lume di Luna Designs. In ancient times, the moon was thought to be responsible for madness. It is no coincidence that the term "lunatic" has the word "luna" in it. It was thought that the moon's touch brought insanity. It is also no coincidence that while I frantically spend my day running between sewing room to kiln, pausing to pick up my sons from school, then run back to my washing machine, trying to remember which number I am on in my wool scouring process, that I jokingly call my business "Lume di Lunatic".

So... sit back, have a cup of tea and join me in admiring the moon and the hysteria.