Putting On Your Best Face!

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"

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

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?