The Joys of Being Generic

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!!!

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!"

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"

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?

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!

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

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?