Sharpening the saw. Remember that? You know, Seven Habits of Highly Effective People. All the rage in the 90's. Give me a show of hands. Who read it? No? Yes? Anyway...
If you think about the phrase it is pretty self-explanatory. You have to stay sharp in order to achieve and you have to do things to keep sharpening that edge. Reading, learning, expanding your horizons and keeping what you have in shape.
Picking up the thread of my last posting we are back in my serenity room in the upstairs of my house. The window looks out onto a splendid patch of woods with a small river running through it and a feeder stream connecting a Y of water that is winding its way through the snow, all sparkling in the sunlight of this crisp, clear winter's day. A foot or so of snow remains on the ground with only a few critter prints marking the clean white sheet. The stark simplicity of it all makes my chest fill up with joy.
I am about to turn on the music to move my body around and I am just not in the fucking mood. Really. I would rather be downstairs doing the laundry! That is how much I do not want to bend my knees and lift my arms up over my head but there is a voice in my head that won't let me out of this room. It's the voice of my 17 year old son. He and I have joined forces and hands to tackle the hindrances of our respective bodies. He, a young budding rock star who, after loosing the 50 pounds he gained while doing an extended stint in a wheelchair, is determined to get rid of the last 10 pounds that has dogged him for a couple of years now. I, as I have told you, am out to reclaim, not the body of my youth but the body that represents the youthful spirit I still experience, even in my middle ageness. Part of this joint venture is that we have hung a huge erase board calendar in the kitchen and we have to write down all the pertinent information regarding what we do each day in pursuit of our goals.
As I kicked off the year, I was gangbusters, like we all are with first of the new year resolutions. The second week, I hung in there like the champ that I am and pushed through the sloth that begged me to do something other that work out. The third week - well, let's see. There was the 2 day migraine (ok, a pass for that) and then there was the doctor's appointment in the city that took all day. Oh, and I had that long day of errands - Fairway, the post office, bank, cleaners, TJ Maxx, Starbucks...okay the last 2 were me stalling so that I could be assured that there would be no time left in the day for me to get my way-too-wide behind into gear.
"Dude. What's up with the workouts?" (Yep, my son calls me "dude".) Well...blah, blah, blah and then blah, blah, blah - "Mom! WTF!" (Yep, he said the whole phrase.) "Excuses!" What's up with that?" I had no answer but just what it was. Excuses. Nothing real (except the headache) nothing acceptable, just a whole lot of blah, blah, blah. "I don't know. I just bagged out on it, I guess." "On yourself, Ma. You bagged out on yourself". I have found that nothing makes me feel more naked and exposed than to be lectured by my teen aged son, and he nails me dead to the truth. Damned you! "I'll tell you why you're slacking off, dude. You don't believe in yourself."
Uncomfortable pause. "What did you say?" "You don't believe in yourself. That's why you didn't work out. If you believed in yourself you'd keep it up." "You're absolutely right, Monk." (Yes, I call him Monk and not for no good reason.)
I walked away to think about this simple of statement. Of course. If I truly believed in myself, I wouldn't let myself down by not keeping my word to myself. Hard and simple of questions were at hand. Do I truly believe that I can shed this tonnage and be light on my feet again? Do I really believe that I can bridge that gap between my kneecap and my chest? Will I really ever trot down the long driveway to the mailbox or try to outrun the dogs around the yard? Will I ever regain some of those dancing chops so that I can bust a move for my son that will make him proud and amazed? I have the vision but do I really believe my own eyes?
I've been feeling a little lost in my NellsBelles business as well, since the holidays. After taking time off, resting and doing all the things that are expected of me at Christmas, I felt at a crossroads with my work. I've been at this long enough now, a little more than a year, and I have certainly come a long way in that time. I am proud of what I have accomplished. But the accomplishment of launching my Etsy store, building up enough stock to be in business and doing a few craft shows is a finite endeavor. Selling, building a brand, gaining a consumer following- that is the business. It requires an additional skill set and a renewed determination to step into the unknown of art in commerce. Now I have to promote myself. Now I have to present my work with pride and confidence and believe that others in the position to raise my profile will agree with me. Now is the winter of my self promotion. Do I believe my own eyes?
I'm attending the winter New York Gift Show next week and plan to attend a series of seminars presented by CRAFT (Craft Retailers and Artists For Tomorrow). The topics include Moving to Inbound Marketing, Media Marketing and Using Facebook to Build Your Business. I'm hoping that what I learn from these few days will give me some know-how and inspiration to move in the direction that I think suits where I believe I belong in the marketplace. I am hoping to be inspired by other artists that are living their vision. Mostly, I am hoping to be inspired to believe in what I do. I want to live my vision.
So here we are, back in the serenity room. Facing the window and its photo worthy view, Adam Lambert is playing on my boom box (don't judge me - we all have quirks) and I hear my son's voice. Dude, you have to believe in yourself. I inhale deeply, raising my arms over my head. My palms come together and as I exhale they come to prayer position at my heart chakra. (Okay, I spent a lot of time in the 80's at Crystal Magic and the Flotation Room. We all have a past.) In the moment before I inhale again, I feel it come over me. Not the warmth of the sun but a wave of sureness and calm. I believe. I know I believe because I am here, breathing and moving and planning and being. I can move forward because I simply choose to believe in myself.
To sharpen the saw can be like walking the razor's edge.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
The Long and Winding Road
Happy New Year! I sort of dropped off the blogosphere for a while. I've been getting comfortable and confident in my techno endeavors and looking forward to what comes next in the business of NellsBelles.
The other day, my BFF elbowed me into violating one of my social principals. Years ago, I swore off anything that even vaguely looks and feels like a "chain letter". I caught on quickly to the gifts and games on FB and told all my friends I wouldn't be playing or exchanging gifts with them - ever. When political statements come along with the proviso to "copy and post to your page", no matter if I'm with you or not, I will not follow. So when the BFF sent me a FB note to declare my New Year's resolutions and forward to 10 friends, I winced and acted against my better judgement. Now, this is the place where I let you know that most everyone I know has also taken a stand on the ole' pass it on and you'll get rich, happy, peaceful - whatever, thing so my well intentioned pals wished me luck, some told me I was brave to pull my panties down in public, and no one declared their ten things even for just me to read in reciprocity! My face, she is red.
Okay. The damage is done and I have now publicly exposed my goals for 2011. I always do it anyway. Every New Year's Eve, I look back on the previous year's New Year's journal entry, review my successes and failures, how things shifted and (hopefully) grew and set out an action plan for the year to come. However, no one ever looks at my journal but me so guess how many people know what I'm up to.
I have been at war with my body for my entire life. (This really does pertain to my business. Bear with me.) Therefore it follows that every New Year's Eve I make some commitment to myself to take action to change myself physically. Some context: in my first life, I was a dancer. In my teen aged years, I was considered a chubby dancer at a size 7 junior. As an adult I was always chasing 5 more LBs even as I dipped below 100 pounds. I was put on my first diet in the third grade and I have fasted as long as two weeks. (That was so I could bear to climb into a shiny white unitard and be seen in public performing.) You get the picture and don't 'cha know, number one on my list this year was to stop being fat (pregnancy - 18 years ago).
Step number one for me is always to get moving. Now I do do exercise. After all, it was my religion as well as my profession for many years. It's just that I don't push myself too hard and skipping a day or a week or a month just doesn't get under my skin as much as it used to. But I have declared, in public, (damn you Kate!) that I am going to stop being fat.
I play no sports. I used to take 1o:00 class every morning, for decades, on top of whatever other classes I took that day, classes I taught or whatever I might be rehearsing. Not doing this was not an option. Not taking morning class was like deciding not to show up at your job at the bank until after lunch - just because. With this in mind please know I have a little chip on my shoulder and I get bored easily. I hate being bored. I have a lot of tricks I play on myself to get into motion from drawing random cards from yoga decks to switching off between 10 Minutes a Day to 8 Minutes In the Morning. Clearly my heart isn't in it and my commitment to it all is drudgingly difficult to maintain. But without motion and movement there is no hope for me to alter my appearance and shop for a different sized clothing.
I shall suck it up.
So. Here's the business part. This morning I drew some cards from the yoga deck. One of the poses was a bendy-stretchy kind of thing on my back and when I went to reach for my leg, I couldn't get ahold of it! I used to be a veritable circus act of limberness. I could drop down into a full split in the blink of an eye and sit down on the floor with my legs out to the side, put my chest on the floor in front of me and take a nap. Not being able to reach my own leg to perform a little stretching exercise did not make me happy. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe through your limitations and accept where you are now.
Whoa. There I lay, with my yoga strap around my leg so I could hoist it toward my chest trying to accept my limitations. But wait. What if, I said to myself. What if the distance between my knee cap and my breast is potential and not a limit? What if I see that space as useful and productive? What if that distance is the opportunity to travel? Breathe and be happy you have somewhere to go!
My husband took some left over vacation days during the holidays and I decided that we were both going to rest, sleep, nap, watch movies and probably not vacuum up all the dog hair for a week. During this time, I decided that the next step I need to take in moving NellsBells forward is to promote myself. Put myself out there. Make a splash. Be the gal whose work shows up in Lucky magazine as the next great find. I decided to go back to all my books and reference materials and begin the process of having something like a press package, put out regular submissions to blogs and magazines and perhaps do a little advertising here and there. Last year's goal was to get the business up and running. This year I want to put it on the map.
I got a great new year gift yesterday. Someone sent me an email asking if I was interested in purchasing some of her jewelry scraps. She had seen a picture of one of my necklaces in New Jersey Monthly magazine in an article about the Craft Lounge (a shop that sells some of my work). What? Me in a magazine? I ran to Borders and bought a copy and stood in the middle of the store, giggling to myself. I couldn't stop staring at the picture of my necklace, professionally photographed and printed on the glossy page of a magazine. Ask and ye shall receive.
So as I was trying to pull my knee to my chest and not being very happy with the results, I really, really got that we have to begin and once we begin we have someplace to go.
The other day, my BFF elbowed me into violating one of my social principals. Years ago, I swore off anything that even vaguely looks and feels like a "chain letter". I caught on quickly to the gifts and games on FB and told all my friends I wouldn't be playing or exchanging gifts with them - ever. When political statements come along with the proviso to "copy and post to your page", no matter if I'm with you or not, I will not follow. So when the BFF sent me a FB note to declare my New Year's resolutions and forward to 10 friends, I winced and acted against my better judgement. Now, this is the place where I let you know that most everyone I know has also taken a stand on the ole' pass it on and you'll get rich, happy, peaceful - whatever, thing so my well intentioned pals wished me luck, some told me I was brave to pull my panties down in public, and no one declared their ten things even for just me to read in reciprocity! My face, she is red.
Okay. The damage is done and I have now publicly exposed my goals for 2011. I always do it anyway. Every New Year's Eve, I look back on the previous year's New Year's journal entry, review my successes and failures, how things shifted and (hopefully) grew and set out an action plan for the year to come. However, no one ever looks at my journal but me so guess how many people know what I'm up to.
I have been at war with my body for my entire life. (This really does pertain to my business. Bear with me.) Therefore it follows that every New Year's Eve I make some commitment to myself to take action to change myself physically. Some context: in my first life, I was a dancer. In my teen aged years, I was considered a chubby dancer at a size 7 junior. As an adult I was always chasing 5 more LBs even as I dipped below 100 pounds. I was put on my first diet in the third grade and I have fasted as long as two weeks. (That was so I could bear to climb into a shiny white unitard and be seen in public performing.) You get the picture and don't 'cha know, number one on my list this year was to stop being fat (pregnancy - 18 years ago).
Step number one for me is always to get moving. Now I do do exercise. After all, it was my religion as well as my profession for many years. It's just that I don't push myself too hard and skipping a day or a week or a month just doesn't get under my skin as much as it used to. But I have declared, in public, (damn you Kate!) that I am going to stop being fat.
I play no sports. I used to take 1o:00 class every morning, for decades, on top of whatever other classes I took that day, classes I taught or whatever I might be rehearsing. Not doing this was not an option. Not taking morning class was like deciding not to show up at your job at the bank until after lunch - just because. With this in mind please know I have a little chip on my shoulder and I get bored easily. I hate being bored. I have a lot of tricks I play on myself to get into motion from drawing random cards from yoga decks to switching off between 10 Minutes a Day to 8 Minutes In the Morning. Clearly my heart isn't in it and my commitment to it all is drudgingly difficult to maintain. But without motion and movement there is no hope for me to alter my appearance and shop for a different sized clothing.
I shall suck it up.
So. Here's the business part. This morning I drew some cards from the yoga deck. One of the poses was a bendy-stretchy kind of thing on my back and when I went to reach for my leg, I couldn't get ahold of it! I used to be a veritable circus act of limberness. I could drop down into a full split in the blink of an eye and sit down on the floor with my legs out to the side, put my chest on the floor in front of me and take a nap. Not being able to reach my own leg to perform a little stretching exercise did not make me happy. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe through your limitations and accept where you are now.
Whoa. There I lay, with my yoga strap around my leg so I could hoist it toward my chest trying to accept my limitations. But wait. What if, I said to myself. What if the distance between my knee cap and my breast is potential and not a limit? What if I see that space as useful and productive? What if that distance is the opportunity to travel? Breathe and be happy you have somewhere to go!
My husband took some left over vacation days during the holidays and I decided that we were both going to rest, sleep, nap, watch movies and probably not vacuum up all the dog hair for a week. During this time, I decided that the next step I need to take in moving NellsBells forward is to promote myself. Put myself out there. Make a splash. Be the gal whose work shows up in Lucky magazine as the next great find. I decided to go back to all my books and reference materials and begin the process of having something like a press package, put out regular submissions to blogs and magazines and perhaps do a little advertising here and there. Last year's goal was to get the business up and running. This year I want to put it on the map.
I got a great new year gift yesterday. Someone sent me an email asking if I was interested in purchasing some of her jewelry scraps. She had seen a picture of one of my necklaces in New Jersey Monthly magazine in an article about the Craft Lounge (a shop that sells some of my work). What? Me in a magazine? I ran to Borders and bought a copy and stood in the middle of the store, giggling to myself. I couldn't stop staring at the picture of my necklace, professionally photographed and printed on the glossy page of a magazine. Ask and ye shall receive.
So as I was trying to pull my knee to my chest and not being very happy with the results, I really, really got that we have to begin and once we begin we have someplace to go.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Cyber Monday!
I'll be posting new items all day. Start your day with this one. http://www.etsy.com/listing/63218591/art-deco-necklace-of-recycled-vintage
Monday, November 1, 2010
Happy Hands
I can't believe that it has been 2 months since I posted my last blog! I won't wonder where the time has gone because I know and I'd like to tell you about it.
It's been about a year and a half since I began the endeavor called NellsBelles. Last summer I spent an entire season trying to figure out how to operate the laptop, take pictures, create my Etsy site and all that is entailed in that process. I joined the Hudson Valley Etsy team which revolutionized my experience of Etsy and accelerated the progress of my business. A big shout out to my girls at HVET and my appreciation for how they have inspired me and energized me to push myself further and faster than I had planned.
So, shows. Ah, the arts and crafts shows and street fairs. What a mixed bag and what a mixed blessing. My first couple were ego boosters, confidence makers and excellent meet and greets. I made a few sales and connected with retailers, promoters and many advice givers. There was the invaluable opportunity to interact with potential customers and actually observe how people reacted to my work. What attracted people and what didn't. One of the most surprising things that I discovered was that people loved, I mean loved the Victorian Memory Jars which are my favorite thing to do and what I thought people would be the least attracted to. That was a thrilling discovery and has really allowed me to focus my mosaic work more. The "Eyes on the Top of Her Head" headbands seem to be popular and there are about a dozen of them for sale at The Craft Lounge in Leonia, New Jersey. I met the women who own The Craft Lounge at the Ridgewood fair. They are fantastic and I am enjoying working with them.
Mostly what I learned about the outdoor shows is that there is a HUGE difference between a genuine art and craft show and all the rest of the events, regardless of how they are billed. For the most part, street fairs are like carnivals. It is an opportunity for large groups of people to walk in a crowd, eat crappy food they would probably not eat normally and drop a few dollars on some novelty item they will grow tired of in a few weeks and wonder what ever got into them in the first place. Then there are true art and craft shows when true talent is on display and discerning people pay good money to own these works of art. I am aware of some of these genuine articles and I never in a million years thought that they were where my work belonged. I have always thought of myself as more crafty and less artist. I have always aspired, hoped to feel I was worthy of "craft artist" or "artisan" but it was not until I left my studio and put myself in public arenas that I was able to clarify my perspective of myself.
For years, I put myself on the line and I mean literally my self on the line as a dancer and an actress. It was I that was on display. It was the talent that was expressed in my body, my voice, my appearance that was open to the judgements of whoever was sitting on the other side of the table in the audition room. I had to look these people, the almighty job holders, in the eyes and present my self for approval and hopefully get the job. It was a gruelling life. A life that can rock the confidence and self image of the most confident and egocentric performers. I had more downs than ups and in the end, I realize I took a brutal beating during that time of my life.
What I do now, I do in private. I work alone. No one watches me like they did in acting class or dance class. I make my mistakes in private. If it doesn't work out, I throw it away and no one ever knows what a mess I made. I can work on something until I am happy with it. I can choose who I show it to for feedback and I can expose the work to the public when I feel confident in what I have created. And somehow, when someone looks at one of my lamps or a necklace or a memory jar and they are not interested in any way it isn't a problem for me. It's not me. It is a product of me but it is not me. I am enjoying that distance. I am happy for that freedom. I am loving what I am doing with myself.
What I learned this summer, during this show season, is that I can be as good as I want. I can have a vision, I can follow that vision and really can make it happen. Simple, isn't it. We have heard it all of our lives. We tell our kids they can do anything they want. Yet for me there was always a major detail left out of the message. We can't do anything we want. The accent is really on want and I always thought the focus was the anything. That anything we tried hard at could produce magnificent results. Not true Grasshopper, not true. What we really mean is that we can do anything with what we want. And we have to want it in a passionate way. The want has to emanate from the pit of our stomachs, from the bottom of our hearts, from that place that tells us what would really make us happy. That, as so many of us know is the tricky part. Sorting out what would really make us happy and to have the sense of self to identify it and stick to our guns.
I always knew I wanted to be an artist. It was all in the busy hands. It was in sitting next to Grandma, it was in the sketchbooks I lugged around it was in the pull I felt when I looked at a painting in a museum and felt the urge to walk into the picture and become a part of it. Other people didn't see it. They saw me being good at other things like being on stage and I followed their opinions into the working world. I always knew but I couldn't find the strength to say so. I never thought I was good enough. I knew I had the desire but I didn't believe there was talent. I looked to make anything happen with something that just didn't fit like a glove.
Having a kid changed all that. It was my son that taught me the real relationship between wanting and doing. He would make proclamations about something he was going to do and I would, in my mind, scream out,"No! You can't do that! You're not good enough, the right type, fast enough...". Yet, I would always go along with what he wanted. I wanted him to have the chance to try. And time after time, it was the things that he was passionate about that he worked and worked at and eventually became good at and in some instances acquired of mastery in. His passion always gave him the right to do the things he wanted. Because of his determination and his commitment to who he is my kid has always seemed to have the ability to make anything he really wants, happen.
I've been schooled. Yes, indeed I have. Now I go to my studio and I believe. I believe because I want to. I believe because I have to. My passion is in my studio and it comes out of my busy hands. Happy hands, happy woman. I feel at home at last.
It's been about a year and a half since I began the endeavor called NellsBelles. Last summer I spent an entire season trying to figure out how to operate the laptop, take pictures, create my Etsy site and all that is entailed in that process. I joined the Hudson Valley Etsy team which revolutionized my experience of Etsy and accelerated the progress of my business. A big shout out to my girls at HVET and my appreciation for how they have inspired me and energized me to push myself further and faster than I had planned.
So, shows. Ah, the arts and crafts shows and street fairs. What a mixed bag and what a mixed blessing. My first couple were ego boosters, confidence makers and excellent meet and greets. I made a few sales and connected with retailers, promoters and many advice givers. There was the invaluable opportunity to interact with potential customers and actually observe how people reacted to my work. What attracted people and what didn't. One of the most surprising things that I discovered was that people loved, I mean loved the Victorian Memory Jars which are my favorite thing to do and what I thought people would be the least attracted to. That was a thrilling discovery and has really allowed me to focus my mosaic work more. The "Eyes on the Top of Her Head" headbands seem to be popular and there are about a dozen of them for sale at The Craft Lounge in Leonia, New Jersey. I met the women who own The Craft Lounge at the Ridgewood fair. They are fantastic and I am enjoying working with them.
Mostly what I learned about the outdoor shows is that there is a HUGE difference between a genuine art and craft show and all the rest of the events, regardless of how they are billed. For the most part, street fairs are like carnivals. It is an opportunity for large groups of people to walk in a crowd, eat crappy food they would probably not eat normally and drop a few dollars on some novelty item they will grow tired of in a few weeks and wonder what ever got into them in the first place. Then there are true art and craft shows when true talent is on display and discerning people pay good money to own these works of art. I am aware of some of these genuine articles and I never in a million years thought that they were where my work belonged. I have always thought of myself as more crafty and less artist. I have always aspired, hoped to feel I was worthy of "craft artist" or "artisan" but it was not until I left my studio and put myself in public arenas that I was able to clarify my perspective of myself.
For years, I put myself on the line and I mean literally my self on the line as a dancer and an actress. It was I that was on display. It was the talent that was expressed in my body, my voice, my appearance that was open to the judgements of whoever was sitting on the other side of the table in the audition room. I had to look these people, the almighty job holders, in the eyes and present my self for approval and hopefully get the job. It was a gruelling life. A life that can rock the confidence and self image of the most confident and egocentric performers. I had more downs than ups and in the end, I realize I took a brutal beating during that time of my life.
What I do now, I do in private. I work alone. No one watches me like they did in acting class or dance class. I make my mistakes in private. If it doesn't work out, I throw it away and no one ever knows what a mess I made. I can work on something until I am happy with it. I can choose who I show it to for feedback and I can expose the work to the public when I feel confident in what I have created. And somehow, when someone looks at one of my lamps or a necklace or a memory jar and they are not interested in any way it isn't a problem for me. It's not me. It is a product of me but it is not me. I am enjoying that distance. I am happy for that freedom. I am loving what I am doing with myself.
What I learned this summer, during this show season, is that I can be as good as I want. I can have a vision, I can follow that vision and really can make it happen. Simple, isn't it. We have heard it all of our lives. We tell our kids they can do anything they want. Yet for me there was always a major detail left out of the message. We can't do anything we want. The accent is really on want and I always thought the focus was the anything. That anything we tried hard at could produce magnificent results. Not true Grasshopper, not true. What we really mean is that we can do anything with what we want. And we have to want it in a passionate way. The want has to emanate from the pit of our stomachs, from the bottom of our hearts, from that place that tells us what would really make us happy. That, as so many of us know is the tricky part. Sorting out what would really make us happy and to have the sense of self to identify it and stick to our guns.
I always knew I wanted to be an artist. It was all in the busy hands. It was in sitting next to Grandma, it was in the sketchbooks I lugged around it was in the pull I felt when I looked at a painting in a museum and felt the urge to walk into the picture and become a part of it. Other people didn't see it. They saw me being good at other things like being on stage and I followed their opinions into the working world. I always knew but I couldn't find the strength to say so. I never thought I was good enough. I knew I had the desire but I didn't believe there was talent. I looked to make anything happen with something that just didn't fit like a glove.
Having a kid changed all that. It was my son that taught me the real relationship between wanting and doing. He would make proclamations about something he was going to do and I would, in my mind, scream out,"No! You can't do that! You're not good enough, the right type, fast enough...". Yet, I would always go along with what he wanted. I wanted him to have the chance to try. And time after time, it was the things that he was passionate about that he worked and worked at and eventually became good at and in some instances acquired of mastery in. His passion always gave him the right to do the things he wanted. Because of his determination and his commitment to who he is my kid has always seemed to have the ability to make anything he really wants, happen.
I've been schooled. Yes, indeed I have. Now I go to my studio and I believe. I believe because I want to. I believe because I have to. My passion is in my studio and it comes out of my busy hands. Happy hands, happy woman. I feel at home at last.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Kaleidoscope Eyes
I have to say, the glow from that first outing has kept its charge for some time now. I find myself drawing on the experience of being out in public with my work and can feel myself changing. Its a shape shift into something that has always been there. Maybe it's a melting. The melting of a persona that was fabricated over years of my life, applied as a mask to survive, please others, do what I was told, be what I thought I should be. I have several talents and I have pursued most of them. Success has rewarded some more than others but when I look back to my childhood my earliest impulses were to make things with my hands.
I never drew very well. My eyes didn't translate depth to the flat surface and though my hands were quite capable under well guided circumstances I just didn't draw well. I longed to be able to sit under a tree with a sketch pad and good lead pencil and just sketch for hours. I dreamed of what it would be like (still do) to see something in my minds eye and be able to translate that onto a sheet of paper. But in reality, me, not so much. And because of that I got it into my head that I wasn't and could never be an artist. No drawing, no art school. Never mind that I would spend hours in the art room of my hippie high school in Seattle working with clay, throwing pots on the manual kick wheel with its huge concrete wheel that looked like something out of a grist mill. Just because I loved helping Don, the art teacher, set the hay on fire to do some Raiku clay firings didn't mean that I could make making things a way of life for myself. My sense of color was just an additional asset when it came time to decorate my house when I grew up or helped me be a "good dresser". No, it didn't matter that I loved having dirty hands and swooned over the smell of wet clay or loved the transformation of wax into metal or that even if I couldn't produce a realistic drawing, the sight of a blank sheet of paper gave me butterflies. Blank, white paper. Total possibility. No holds barred. Freedom.
Instead, I graduated from high school and took off for New York to dance. I was better than most but I certainly had my limitations. I lived in that skin for many, many years. Eked out a living and always felt like a bit of an impostor. I lived the life in full passion but at the end of the day I never felt like I was in my own club.
Through the years I have always had these spells (as my grandma Matie used to describe them) where I was overcome with the primal need to make something. I would see a piece of embroidery and would have to run right out and buy a hoop, needles, thread and cloth to make something. It never really mattered if "it" became something. It was the doing. I had to do something with my hands. Sometimes it was as simple as painting something. My BFF can tell you that when we shared an apartment in NYC all she had to do was mention changing a paint color and I was out the door to buy paint. Christmas would come and I would get the urge to crochet and scarves and afghans and hats would abound. I remember one year, in my deeply New Age period, my BFF had started knitting and she had some beautiful yarn scraps. I made little drawstring pouches from the yarn and put bits of sage, crystals, totems and a little scroll describing what each item meant and why I chose those particular things for each loved one. I crocheted and beaded elaborate bags for tarot cards and rune stones but at some point the limitation of my skills and materials would burn out and my hands would once again be left idol and bored.
By the time my son was born I had reached the end of the line with my limited skills and all I ever got from my little forays into stitchery and house and furniture painting was a feeling of letdown. It just didn't scratch my itch. My hands were busy for a while but my heart was left empty. I wasn't getting anything out of it anymore. It all looked crappy and crafty and I wanted my hands to have something to take real pride in.
This is where the broken pieces mosaics come in. I needed a new skill and this one seemed to be one I could teach myself. It was also a technique that required multiple skills and materials and gave me a sense of multitasking. I felt like I was doing alot. The many steps gave me a deep feeling of accomplishment and the extended period of time it took to finish a project satisfied my need to work for something. And there was room to grow. Little things like knowing that earthenware tends to crumble a bit when you nip it but china cuts crisply. Vintage Fire King splinters like the tempered glass that it is and those splinters usually end up in your fingertips (note to self to avoid). Dishes that have started to discolor and turn brown and crackle are going to break with a dull snap unlike new plates from the damaged shelf at TJMaxx which snap with a bit of a ring. I have grown to love the experience of being able to look at something, tap it, run my finger on it and know exactly how it is going to behave in my hands. I recognize the clays and glazes and though I can't tell you the elemental composition of any of it, I know its ways.
Glues and adhesives are the soap and water of my work. At any given time I have anywhere from 5 to 10 different compounds to stick one thing to another in my studio. Silicone, construction adhesive, tile mastic, craft glue, goop, E-3000, epoxy - all do something different from the other. I read about glues. I have charts about what makes one thing stick to another. Glass to clay. China to wood. Leather to metal. Fabric to fabric. China to china. These things are ridiculously important to me. Grout! OMG! A science and an art. Sanded or not sanded? I almost never use unsanded anymore because it has less integrity but sometimes the sanded can scratch delicate china so every once in while I have to go no sand. But that presents additional challenges because if I don't get the right water to concrete ratio, it tends to crack as it dries and it requires constant tending through the drying process. Often I have to make a slip (runny grout) to fill the cracks and insure the piece is sound.
Color. Choosing the grout color is, for me, the most challenging part of mosaics. What will make the work pop. Do I want it to pop or do I just want the empty spaces to show? And there's many ways to color grout. You can buy it premade and I have this nifty sample case with wands of color that I can hold up to a piece, like a color chip and choose a prefab color. Sometimes those colors aren't quite right so I have to go the custom route. I can buy concrete tints which are usually powders and sometimes liquids but they tend to be earthy tones that you would use on a patio or floor. I use acrylic craft paint sometimes and I can use that two ways - mix the paint into the grout or grout in white and then apply the paint to the whole piece and wipe it clean. The grout drinks up the paint and wipes off the ceramic. It creates two completely different looking finishes.
Okay, I'm boring you now. I'll stop. Here's my point. Opening the door to a new skill changed my life. Taking the leap to learn how to do something new is a door opener of unforeseen proportions. That new skill may seem basic and simple at first but it leads you into a world of seeing things used differently. Looking beyond the obvious and teaching your eyes, your mind to see and understand in a new context. It's like looking through a kaleidoscope. Initially the image is one thing but as you learn to turn the lens you can see the same elements in a million different ways. You have new eyes and therefore new things to do. You can change. You can change what you see, what you do, how you do it, why you do it and how you feel when you are doing it. You can remind yourself that everything holds new possibilities. Nothing is static. Not the things you use everyday, not the vehicle you take to work everyday, not your home, not your body, not your kids or your friends or you pets, not your Self. Everything is in constant motion and to live with the illusion that things stay the same, to assume oneself into "this is how I do things" is life numbing.
Learning something new is the most restorative tonic I know.
I never drew very well. My eyes didn't translate depth to the flat surface and though my hands were quite capable under well guided circumstances I just didn't draw well. I longed to be able to sit under a tree with a sketch pad and good lead pencil and just sketch for hours. I dreamed of what it would be like (still do) to see something in my minds eye and be able to translate that onto a sheet of paper. But in reality, me, not so much. And because of that I got it into my head that I wasn't and could never be an artist. No drawing, no art school. Never mind that I would spend hours in the art room of my hippie high school in Seattle working with clay, throwing pots on the manual kick wheel with its huge concrete wheel that looked like something out of a grist mill. Just because I loved helping Don, the art teacher, set the hay on fire to do some Raiku clay firings didn't mean that I could make making things a way of life for myself. My sense of color was just an additional asset when it came time to decorate my house when I grew up or helped me be a "good dresser". No, it didn't matter that I loved having dirty hands and swooned over the smell of wet clay or loved the transformation of wax into metal or that even if I couldn't produce a realistic drawing, the sight of a blank sheet of paper gave me butterflies. Blank, white paper. Total possibility. No holds barred. Freedom.
Instead, I graduated from high school and took off for New York to dance. I was better than most but I certainly had my limitations. I lived in that skin for many, many years. Eked out a living and always felt like a bit of an impostor. I lived the life in full passion but at the end of the day I never felt like I was in my own club.
Through the years I have always had these spells (as my grandma Matie used to describe them) where I was overcome with the primal need to make something. I would see a piece of embroidery and would have to run right out and buy a hoop, needles, thread and cloth to make something. It never really mattered if "it" became something. It was the doing. I had to do something with my hands. Sometimes it was as simple as painting something. My BFF can tell you that when we shared an apartment in NYC all she had to do was mention changing a paint color and I was out the door to buy paint. Christmas would come and I would get the urge to crochet and scarves and afghans and hats would abound. I remember one year, in my deeply New Age period, my BFF had started knitting and she had some beautiful yarn scraps. I made little drawstring pouches from the yarn and put bits of sage, crystals, totems and a little scroll describing what each item meant and why I chose those particular things for each loved one. I crocheted and beaded elaborate bags for tarot cards and rune stones but at some point the limitation of my skills and materials would burn out and my hands would once again be left idol and bored.
By the time my son was born I had reached the end of the line with my limited skills and all I ever got from my little forays into stitchery and house and furniture painting was a feeling of letdown. It just didn't scratch my itch. My hands were busy for a while but my heart was left empty. I wasn't getting anything out of it anymore. It all looked crappy and crafty and I wanted my hands to have something to take real pride in.
This is where the broken pieces mosaics come in. I needed a new skill and this one seemed to be one I could teach myself. It was also a technique that required multiple skills and materials and gave me a sense of multitasking. I felt like I was doing alot. The many steps gave me a deep feeling of accomplishment and the extended period of time it took to finish a project satisfied my need to work for something. And there was room to grow. Little things like knowing that earthenware tends to crumble a bit when you nip it but china cuts crisply. Vintage Fire King splinters like the tempered glass that it is and those splinters usually end up in your fingertips (note to self to avoid). Dishes that have started to discolor and turn brown and crackle are going to break with a dull snap unlike new plates from the damaged shelf at TJMaxx which snap with a bit of a ring. I have grown to love the experience of being able to look at something, tap it, run my finger on it and know exactly how it is going to behave in my hands. I recognize the clays and glazes and though I can't tell you the elemental composition of any of it, I know its ways.
Glues and adhesives are the soap and water of my work. At any given time I have anywhere from 5 to 10 different compounds to stick one thing to another in my studio. Silicone, construction adhesive, tile mastic, craft glue, goop, E-3000, epoxy - all do something different from the other. I read about glues. I have charts about what makes one thing stick to another. Glass to clay. China to wood. Leather to metal. Fabric to fabric. China to china. These things are ridiculously important to me. Grout! OMG! A science and an art. Sanded or not sanded? I almost never use unsanded anymore because it has less integrity but sometimes the sanded can scratch delicate china so every once in while I have to go no sand. But that presents additional challenges because if I don't get the right water to concrete ratio, it tends to crack as it dries and it requires constant tending through the drying process. Often I have to make a slip (runny grout) to fill the cracks and insure the piece is sound.
Color. Choosing the grout color is, for me, the most challenging part of mosaics. What will make the work pop. Do I want it to pop or do I just want the empty spaces to show? And there's many ways to color grout. You can buy it premade and I have this nifty sample case with wands of color that I can hold up to a piece, like a color chip and choose a prefab color. Sometimes those colors aren't quite right so I have to go the custom route. I can buy concrete tints which are usually powders and sometimes liquids but they tend to be earthy tones that you would use on a patio or floor. I use acrylic craft paint sometimes and I can use that two ways - mix the paint into the grout or grout in white and then apply the paint to the whole piece and wipe it clean. The grout drinks up the paint and wipes off the ceramic. It creates two completely different looking finishes.
Okay, I'm boring you now. I'll stop. Here's my point. Opening the door to a new skill changed my life. Taking the leap to learn how to do something new is a door opener of unforeseen proportions. That new skill may seem basic and simple at first but it leads you into a world of seeing things used differently. Looking beyond the obvious and teaching your eyes, your mind to see and understand in a new context. It's like looking through a kaleidoscope. Initially the image is one thing but as you learn to turn the lens you can see the same elements in a million different ways. You have new eyes and therefore new things to do. You can change. You can change what you see, what you do, how you do it, why you do it and how you feel when you are doing it. You can remind yourself that everything holds new possibilities. Nothing is static. Not the things you use everyday, not the vehicle you take to work everyday, not your home, not your body, not your kids or your friends or you pets, not your Self. Everything is in constant motion and to live with the illusion that things stay the same, to assume oneself into "this is how I do things" is life numbing.
Learning something new is the most restorative tonic I know.
Monday, August 2, 2010
Coming Out
I bought a tent. I followed the newspaper sale flyer to Sports Authority and I bought a forest green, 10'x10', true 100 sq/foot area tent, complete with a carrying case on wheels. It weighs about 20 lbs, is about 4 feet long all packed up and I can pull it behind me more easily than a cheap suitcase thru the airport. I was also saved the time of ripping off my compadre's cleaver weight system when I spotted 4 weighted feet for less than 100 bucks. (They look like 5lb barbell weights with notches cut out of them to fit around the legs of the tent) WooHoo! $240.00 and I felt like I was half-way to nailing my goal of a craft fair. A tall, strapping girl who didn't want any of the male employees to think she was a sissy, helped me out to the car and loaded me up (she reminded me of myself). We shook hands and off I went. I was becoming an artist out of cyberspace. The alien had landed.
I got home, propped the boxes up against the garage wall and went into the house. I immediately went to the laptop and clicked into the application for the Nyack Street Fair in October and typically found the pebble in the road that I would allow myself to trip over for a couple of weeks. They want pictures of my setup and my tent isn't even out of the box yet. Shit.
Alright, keep it moving, keep it flowing. One step at a time. Break it down. The main table. I need to design the main table and take a trial run at the setup and display design. I had the little tole suitcases I had picked up at my local pharmacy/gift shop for an ultimate markdown price. I had the large metal daisies designed to hold photos in its cute little curlicue tendrils but I was going to hang jewelry on instead. I had my beloved Nell, the mannequin I had bought online that looked like a French coquette to model a few key items for me. And I had loads of table cloths and vintage fabrics to drape for luxury. I looked around the house for a place to set up the table and begin working. The kitchen? Nope. Between the cooking and eating thing, there were the plants and the dogs and all of my son's cords and papers and Cd's and other garbage that he annoyingly just drops on the kitchen table when he comes in. It didn't feel like the path of least resistance. Where would all that clutter end up if I take over this space? Okay. The Living Room? No, not the "pretty room" My studio? I can't cram one more activity or storage area in that already exploding space. The garage? I could park one of the cars on the driveway for a few days. No, that car would be up and down the driveway so that my son and his bros could play basketball every 10 minutes. The dining room. Move that buffet out of the bay window and cram it into a corner of the living room and I'll have a place to work. Done.
I get the table set up, start bringing things up from the studio and in a day or so I had a table that I could live with. (Bear in mind, I tend toward neurotic perfectionism so "I can live with it" is a good thing). The next step was to set up the tent in the driveway and replicate what my tent would look like in a show presentation. My husband assured me we would make time over the weekend for me to set up and take all the pictures I needed. A couple of the fairs were not accepting jewelry so I also needed to take some shots with furniture and mosaics only. Good enough.
Like many places in the world right now, we have been having some freakishly uncomfortable weather here in the beautiful state of New York so I began to track the weather reports for the upcoming weekend. As we got closer it became clear that Saturday and Sunday were going to bring oppressive humidity, unbreathable air and temperatures hot enough to bake the peach pie on the deck that I was going to make with the farmer's market fruit I had just purchased. That will be fun. Dragging all that stuff out to the driveway, dripping sweat and trying not to get into a fight with my husband about how he doesn't know how to zhuzh a tablecloth. Yep. That's what I call ideal conditions . I took solice in the fact that we were not living in the upper parts of Siberia where people who are accustomed to temperatures of -90 degrees are freaking out over the 90 plus temperatures that are causing their potato fields to spontaneously combust! (Don't anyone panic. There is no climate change or global warming going on.)
Lucky for us it rained all weekend but I still had no pictures and the clock was ticking on those applications. Around Wednesday I got a call from the Events Producer for our Suffern Farmers Market asking me if I knew any artists that worked with recycled materials as she was trying to put a last minute event together featuring local artist/recyclers. My mind raced. Dare I tell her? Can I do it? Am I setting myself up for a disaster. A nervous breakdown? Is this another one of my self-sabotage moves to beat the crap out of my confidence by not doing well? "Well, as a matter of fact, that is exactly what I do", I heard myself say to Alex. "Really!? Would you be willing to do it? I know it's short notice but you'd really be doing me a favor." "Sure", I said as my stomach tightened and I felt a twinge of migraine grabbing my left temple. "Yeah, I'll do it". "Great! See you at 7:30 on Saturday". "Okay. 7:30."
I don't even need to comment on the 7:30 thing. But I had just said yes to stepping over the line from the private vacuum of cyberspace to the bright, people populated realm of an open market. This moment felt exactly like the moment I had had last summer as I hit that button on the Etsy site that launched my NellsBells Etsy and put my work on public view. Now, I was crossing the threshold from how many hits Google calculated I got on any given day to actual face-to-face responses to the "Flights of Fancy" I toil over day in and day out. I was going to know, for certain, by looking at people, how they really felt about the work that I hold so dear to my heart. Holy shit. It was a worse feeling than the first day of school.
Being the engineer's daughter that I am, I packed my stuff in a very organized and calculating manner including how it was placed in the back of the car so that the tent, then the table, then the the cloths came out first so that the set up was done in order of need. I raced around putting together last minute necessities like signage, order forms and a change bank. I went to bed that night ready to get up, get dressed and pull out of the driveway. May I tell you, it was a fitful sleep at best.
When I woke up that morning and opened the back door to let the dogs out I almost dropped to my knees and wept - in gratitude. It was a crisp, breezy morning with one of those cornflower blue skies that only New York has. It was about 70 degrees with a cooling breeze that was strong enough to ruffle your skirt but not powerful to blow your tent over. By golly, it was a perfect day! Woohoo for me! I am actually going to enjoy being outside today!
At 7:25am (we live about 2 miles from this market - another plus for a training wheel venture) my husband and I pulled out of the driveway, arrived at the site, parked the car and I was set up and in my soccer-mom chair enjoying a home brewed cup of french press coffee in about 20 minutes. Honest to god, it was one of the most serene moments of my life. I felt like I had crossed the Mojave desert and was now lounging by a fresh water stream feeling satisfied at my survival.
The people began to arrive. Mind you, they were there to buy food for the week, not a necklace or a house number. Yet as people passed they would smile at my little NellsBelles universe. Many of them stopped in to browse and they enjoyed the stories I told them of the genesis of the vintage jewelery components of my work and asked me to tell them the stories of the pieces they liked. Some even recognized the folk art roots of some of my less understood pieces and loved that I was crafting in that tradition (Memento Morie, a Victorian practice of creating death art which includes hair jewelry, death portraits and Victorian Memory Jars which I create.) The young 20somethings were drawn to the more fun pieces like the Betty Boop bracelet and the Eyes on the Top of Her Head headbands, just as I had anticipated. The middle aged funksters loved the vintage compositions on the biker chains. Men liked the daintier vintage pieces and a couple of them bought something for their wives for a "just because" gift. (Yes, you heard me. I actually made some sales!) I got orders for a couple of house numbers, one for a woman who was returning to her home in the Bahamas the next day and was looking for a number for the post at her front gate.
All in all, I was a chatting, charming fool and for anyone that really knows me, that is no mean feat. I felt comfortable and in my element. It was never stressful, I never felt anxious (not even when one of my daisy displays blew over and sent about 5 necklaces skidding across the pavement). I felt at home. I felt like myself. My real self. It was quite simply, a joyful experience.
I got home, propped the boxes up against the garage wall and went into the house. I immediately went to the laptop and clicked into the application for the Nyack Street Fair in October and typically found the pebble in the road that I would allow myself to trip over for a couple of weeks. They want pictures of my setup and my tent isn't even out of the box yet. Shit.
Alright, keep it moving, keep it flowing. One step at a time. Break it down. The main table. I need to design the main table and take a trial run at the setup and display design. I had the little tole suitcases I had picked up at my local pharmacy/gift shop for an ultimate markdown price. I had the large metal daisies designed to hold photos in its cute little curlicue tendrils but I was going to hang jewelry on instead. I had my beloved Nell, the mannequin I had bought online that looked like a French coquette to model a few key items for me. And I had loads of table cloths and vintage fabrics to drape for luxury. I looked around the house for a place to set up the table and begin working. The kitchen? Nope. Between the cooking and eating thing, there were the plants and the dogs and all of my son's cords and papers and Cd's and other garbage that he annoyingly just drops on the kitchen table when he comes in. It didn't feel like the path of least resistance. Where would all that clutter end up if I take over this space? Okay. The Living Room? No, not the "pretty room" My studio? I can't cram one more activity or storage area in that already exploding space. The garage? I could park one of the cars on the driveway for a few days. No, that car would be up and down the driveway so that my son and his bros could play basketball every 10 minutes. The dining room. Move that buffet out of the bay window and cram it into a corner of the living room and I'll have a place to work. Done.
I get the table set up, start bringing things up from the studio and in a day or so I had a table that I could live with. (Bear in mind, I tend toward neurotic perfectionism so "I can live with it" is a good thing). The next step was to set up the tent in the driveway and replicate what my tent would look like in a show presentation. My husband assured me we would make time over the weekend for me to set up and take all the pictures I needed. A couple of the fairs were not accepting jewelry so I also needed to take some shots with furniture and mosaics only. Good enough.
Like many places in the world right now, we have been having some freakishly uncomfortable weather here in the beautiful state of New York so I began to track the weather reports for the upcoming weekend. As we got closer it became clear that Saturday and Sunday were going to bring oppressive humidity, unbreathable air and temperatures hot enough to bake the peach pie on the deck that I was going to make with the farmer's market fruit I had just purchased. That will be fun. Dragging all that stuff out to the driveway, dripping sweat and trying not to get into a fight with my husband about how he doesn't know how to zhuzh a tablecloth. Yep. That's what I call ideal conditions . I took solice in the fact that we were not living in the upper parts of Siberia where people who are accustomed to temperatures of -90 degrees are freaking out over the 90 plus temperatures that are causing their potato fields to spontaneously combust! (Don't anyone panic. There is no climate change or global warming going on.)
Lucky for us it rained all weekend but I still had no pictures and the clock was ticking on those applications. Around Wednesday I got a call from the Events Producer for our Suffern Farmers Market asking me if I knew any artists that worked with recycled materials as she was trying to put a last minute event together featuring local artist/recyclers. My mind raced. Dare I tell her? Can I do it? Am I setting myself up for a disaster. A nervous breakdown? Is this another one of my self-sabotage moves to beat the crap out of my confidence by not doing well? "Well, as a matter of fact, that is exactly what I do", I heard myself say to Alex. "Really!? Would you be willing to do it? I know it's short notice but you'd really be doing me a favor." "Sure", I said as my stomach tightened and I felt a twinge of migraine grabbing my left temple. "Yeah, I'll do it". "Great! See you at 7:30 on Saturday". "Okay. 7:30."
I don't even need to comment on the 7:30 thing. But I had just said yes to stepping over the line from the private vacuum of cyberspace to the bright, people populated realm of an open market. This moment felt exactly like the moment I had had last summer as I hit that button on the Etsy site that launched my NellsBells Etsy and put my work on public view. Now, I was crossing the threshold from how many hits Google calculated I got on any given day to actual face-to-face responses to the "Flights of Fancy" I toil over day in and day out. I was going to know, for certain, by looking at people, how they really felt about the work that I hold so dear to my heart. Holy shit. It was a worse feeling than the first day of school.
Being the engineer's daughter that I am, I packed my stuff in a very organized and calculating manner including how it was placed in the back of the car so that the tent, then the table, then the the cloths came out first so that the set up was done in order of need. I raced around putting together last minute necessities like signage, order forms and a change bank. I went to bed that night ready to get up, get dressed and pull out of the driveway. May I tell you, it was a fitful sleep at best.
When I woke up that morning and opened the back door to let the dogs out I almost dropped to my knees and wept - in gratitude. It was a crisp, breezy morning with one of those cornflower blue skies that only New York has. It was about 70 degrees with a cooling breeze that was strong enough to ruffle your skirt but not powerful to blow your tent over. By golly, it was a perfect day! Woohoo for me! I am actually going to enjoy being outside today!
At 7:25am (we live about 2 miles from this market - another plus for a training wheel venture) my husband and I pulled out of the driveway, arrived at the site, parked the car and I was set up and in my soccer-mom chair enjoying a home brewed cup of french press coffee in about 20 minutes. Honest to god, it was one of the most serene moments of my life. I felt like I had crossed the Mojave desert and was now lounging by a fresh water stream feeling satisfied at my survival.
The people began to arrive. Mind you, they were there to buy food for the week, not a necklace or a house number. Yet as people passed they would smile at my little NellsBelles universe. Many of them stopped in to browse and they enjoyed the stories I told them of the genesis of the vintage jewelery components of my work and asked me to tell them the stories of the pieces they liked. Some even recognized the folk art roots of some of my less understood pieces and loved that I was crafting in that tradition (Memento Morie, a Victorian practice of creating death art which includes hair jewelry, death portraits and Victorian Memory Jars which I create.) The young 20somethings were drawn to the more fun pieces like the Betty Boop bracelet and the Eyes on the Top of Her Head headbands, just as I had anticipated. The middle aged funksters loved the vintage compositions on the biker chains. Men liked the daintier vintage pieces and a couple of them bought something for their wives for a "just because" gift. (Yes, you heard me. I actually made some sales!) I got orders for a couple of house numbers, one for a woman who was returning to her home in the Bahamas the next day and was looking for a number for the post at her front gate.
All in all, I was a chatting, charming fool and for anyone that really knows me, that is no mean feat. I felt comfortable and in my element. It was never stressful, I never felt anxious (not even when one of my daisy displays blew over and sent about 5 necklaces skidding across the pavement). I felt at home. I felt like myself. My real self. It was quite simply, a joyful experience.
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