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What a dream I had...
Feb. 15th, 2008 05:50 amI don't remember how I got to be there, but I was at a gathering in a hotel lobby somewhere for a seminar or conference of artists. I was a little early, so I'd claimed a comfortable chair and was people-watching. I had the feeling of being pretty well-practised at my chosen form of art and a couple of others, but also of being a bit of an imposter--what I did, I just...did. It was like alchemy that it came out right, alchemy, magic, and hope. I was lucky that it happened as often as it did.
On a table about twelve feet away, the establishment was displaying two of my pieces, both blown glass jars. One was a simple water-jar, with pigment flowing up from the bottom in spots like champagne bubbles. No stopper. The other was a rich, glowing cobalt blue with glass so thick or else pigment so rich that it was mostly opaque. Shapewise, it was simple: think of the goddess-image that's anywhere pagan, with the sharp point for feet, wide hips, narrower waist, rounded bust and shoulders, sleek neck, and round head. This jar was like that, only condensed so that the "point" was a round base about six inches across, the "hips" flared to about 9", and the narrowness of "waist" was a fluid suggestion, a slim in-sweeping, a perfect place to put your hand to grip, or to stroke with a thumb (if you're a tactile creature like I am). The goddess's neck was the neck of the jar, about three inches in diameter; her head was the stopper, sleek, round, and serene. If you took it out and held it, it would fit in the hollow of your palm with a cool, graceful weight. There were flecks of gold leaf in the stopper, my one concession to decoration. Obviously, it was one of my favourite pieces, but I wasn't sure what anyone else would think of it, it being so simple and functional-looking. Still. My breath was in that jug. My breath and sweat and energy of spinning movement. I was proud. I tried not to stare.
And then two women moving like they had a purpose walked up. One was blonde and gave the impression of reaching for a youth she didn't quite have (but for all that, confident still; you could tell by the way she moved and the jewellery she wore.); the other was brunette and seemed to have all her companion's grace and also the youth. The way they chattered (like there was nothing else in the world but their conversation; the rest of us in the lobby and in fact, the lobby itself, were of no more or less consequence than the set of a stage.) made me think they were related somehow. My mother and I chatter like that, on good days.
So there they went, moving through the room barely seeing it. Then the brunette stops and pounces on my little goddess-jug. And she picks it up like it's a child (well she should; it's about the weight of one) and cradles it. And she puts it down and strokes it with her thumbs, cups it in her palms...
And then? She spins it like a top.
One middle finger in the groove, one palm well-anchored on the wall of the jug, she steals that hand away to set the jug spinning. And it does. It dances in her hands.
I'm trying not to stare, but I know my face has the same look of composed horror it used to wear when Adam or anyone else would hurl Dae into the air and catch him. "Oh, God, woman, I'll have your hide if you break that," is warring, in my head, with "Well. She enjoys it. Maybe she'll buy it."
But underneath all thought of commerce or protection? There's the same kind of childlike joy that's on the brunette's face as she spins my jar. Because I'd suspected it would do that, but I had never been brave enough to try it.
The blonde walks up to me with a knowing look on her face as the brunette catches the jar and sets it right, wipes her fingerprints off with a handkerchief. "They're yours, aren't they?"
"Well, yes," I answer, rising to shake her hand.
The blonde makes some gesture as if handing me a business card, but no card can I find (and I begin to realise this is where the awkward lesson of dreams begins). And she says her name, but with the noise that has built in the room, I can't hear her and it's short enough that it's gone from her lips before I can read them.
"I'm sorry, could you repeat that?" I ask, pencil and paper in hand.
She gives me a puzzled look, and says something else to identify her that is NOT her name or the name of her business and is also inaudible, then continues, "I'm rather particular about what is shown in my gallery--it's got to have a certain spark. Anything can be decorative, any art piece can be formidable and technically amazing...but decorative things don't always encourage you to see the world differently, and technically amazing art objects don't always invite interaction. I'm looking for things that bridge the gap. And that piece does it. I would love to see what else you've done, and possibly put a few things on display."
The way her eyes move as she talks about things-created--alighting on this piece that's hung in the room, or that one, coming to rest, finally, on a painting of a birch-forest with such a shadow and rose/golden glow that I look out the window across from the painting to see whether it's art or whether it's nature making the colour. She smiles. "You understand. So. Call me; we'll set up a time. Please?"
"Thank you, ma'am, it'd be my pleasure," I answer, thinking, now if only I can find or divine her name and number....
~~)O(~~
Today, no more excuses. I have three pairs of boxers and one rayon shirt tied and bound and waiting to dye. I have a plan for them (more or less; I'm not to the point of being scientific about weight of fabric to amount of dye and ratios of what to whatelse to yield a specific colour. Right now, it's still alchemy and magic and hope, with enough practice to have an idea how the colours will move.). I even have a tub to soak them in that won't leak caustic water all over my kitchen. (And also a small jar in which to save some caustic water for the next time I dye my hair! Huzzah for principles that carry from one textile to another! Although if there are beauticians in the audience, I can hear them wincing...)
Today, I dye.
Tomorrow, it will batch.
Sunday, my husband will have gaudy underwear and a loud shirt.
And then I can set about making charms and knotting a bracelet.
Life is good.
On a table about twelve feet away, the establishment was displaying two of my pieces, both blown glass jars. One was a simple water-jar, with pigment flowing up from the bottom in spots like champagne bubbles. No stopper. The other was a rich, glowing cobalt blue with glass so thick or else pigment so rich that it was mostly opaque. Shapewise, it was simple: think of the goddess-image that's anywhere pagan, with the sharp point for feet, wide hips, narrower waist, rounded bust and shoulders, sleek neck, and round head. This jar was like that, only condensed so that the "point" was a round base about six inches across, the "hips" flared to about 9", and the narrowness of "waist" was a fluid suggestion, a slim in-sweeping, a perfect place to put your hand to grip, or to stroke with a thumb (if you're a tactile creature like I am). The goddess's neck was the neck of the jar, about three inches in diameter; her head was the stopper, sleek, round, and serene. If you took it out and held it, it would fit in the hollow of your palm with a cool, graceful weight. There were flecks of gold leaf in the stopper, my one concession to decoration. Obviously, it was one of my favourite pieces, but I wasn't sure what anyone else would think of it, it being so simple and functional-looking. Still. My breath was in that jug. My breath and sweat and energy of spinning movement. I was proud. I tried not to stare.
And then two women moving like they had a purpose walked up. One was blonde and gave the impression of reaching for a youth she didn't quite have (but for all that, confident still; you could tell by the way she moved and the jewellery she wore.); the other was brunette and seemed to have all her companion's grace and also the youth. The way they chattered (like there was nothing else in the world but their conversation; the rest of us in the lobby and in fact, the lobby itself, were of no more or less consequence than the set of a stage.) made me think they were related somehow. My mother and I chatter like that, on good days.
So there they went, moving through the room barely seeing it. Then the brunette stops and pounces on my little goddess-jug. And she picks it up like it's a child (well she should; it's about the weight of one) and cradles it. And she puts it down and strokes it with her thumbs, cups it in her palms...
And then? She spins it like a top.
One middle finger in the groove, one palm well-anchored on the wall of the jug, she steals that hand away to set the jug spinning. And it does. It dances in her hands.
I'm trying not to stare, but I know my face has the same look of composed horror it used to wear when Adam or anyone else would hurl Dae into the air and catch him. "Oh, God, woman, I'll have your hide if you break that," is warring, in my head, with "Well. She enjoys it. Maybe she'll buy it."
But underneath all thought of commerce or protection? There's the same kind of childlike joy that's on the brunette's face as she spins my jar. Because I'd suspected it would do that, but I had never been brave enough to try it.
The blonde walks up to me with a knowing look on her face as the brunette catches the jar and sets it right, wipes her fingerprints off with a handkerchief. "They're yours, aren't they?"
"Well, yes," I answer, rising to shake her hand.
The blonde makes some gesture as if handing me a business card, but no card can I find (and I begin to realise this is where the awkward lesson of dreams begins). And she says her name, but with the noise that has built in the room, I can't hear her and it's short enough that it's gone from her lips before I can read them.
"I'm sorry, could you repeat that?" I ask, pencil and paper in hand.
She gives me a puzzled look, and says something else to identify her that is NOT her name or the name of her business and is also inaudible, then continues, "I'm rather particular about what is shown in my gallery--it's got to have a certain spark. Anything can be decorative, any art piece can be formidable and technically amazing...but decorative things don't always encourage you to see the world differently, and technically amazing art objects don't always invite interaction. I'm looking for things that bridge the gap. And that piece does it. I would love to see what else you've done, and possibly put a few things on display."
The way her eyes move as she talks about things-created--alighting on this piece that's hung in the room, or that one, coming to rest, finally, on a painting of a birch-forest with such a shadow and rose/golden glow that I look out the window across from the painting to see whether it's art or whether it's nature making the colour. She smiles. "You understand. So. Call me; we'll set up a time. Please?"
"Thank you, ma'am, it'd be my pleasure," I answer, thinking, now if only I can find or divine her name and number....
~~)O(~~
Today, no more excuses. I have three pairs of boxers and one rayon shirt tied and bound and waiting to dye. I have a plan for them (more or less; I'm not to the point of being scientific about weight of fabric to amount of dye and ratios of what to whatelse to yield a specific colour. Right now, it's still alchemy and magic and hope, with enough practice to have an idea how the colours will move.). I even have a tub to soak them in that won't leak caustic water all over my kitchen. (And also a small jar in which to save some caustic water for the next time I dye my hair! Huzzah for principles that carry from one textile to another! Although if there are beauticians in the audience, I can hear them wincing...)
Today, I dye.
Tomorrow, it will batch.
Sunday, my husband will have gaudy underwear and a loud shirt.
And then I can set about making charms and knotting a bracelet.
Life is good.
