The Annunciation by Henry Ossawa Tanner (at the PMA)

one golden tile

the children’s colors

somewhere in south philly

the studio

 anyone need an x-acto knife?  I got plenty

never forget from where you hail

more to come.

I want to avoid appropriation of any culture or religion.

So, I have to shed the frame works of all religious identities and their virtuous objects, which have already been objectified or personified, such as amulets, symbols, and saints.

This means that I have to create my own framework of virtuous ideas, and their respective objects.

I *attempted* this in graduate school, and I think I did not succeed, because I latched on to another culture’s framework, and tried to make it my own.

I am interested in imbuing the items with ‘magic’.    Meaning that they would be given the ability to affect the user, if object, or the wearer, if worn.  Which may involve ritual and ceremony.  Which may in turn involve documentation of the ritual ceremony, to prove the object has been imbued.

This system would all be reliant on a sense of imagination, belief, faith.  Which brings us to the point of the body of work.  The Human ability to believe in a faith system.  The strength and ability of the objects as fetish objects will determine the success of the faith system.

The whole thing would be intrinsic.  There will be no evidence of the system I am trying to create.  No obvious religiosity inherent in the objects.  Only that they would be related, with the support of human faith, as virtuous objects that may bring peace to the user/wearer.

Location:  Cheltenham Center for the Arts

Work: Jewelry and Object

Timeframe: June 2011-June 2012

Funds: Unknown

Outside Support: Dinahmoe, Loeffelholz, Parents, Lisa Lisa (sans Cult Jam), Ruppersburger, The Stars, etc.

Forms: Lockets, Enkolpions, Holders of the Cosmos, Hairpins, Boxes, That thing for Clemmer, Rings, Earloops, Toe sparkles,  Rocking chairs with flowers, bicycle adornment, a brand, inner knowledge, hand enhancements, talismans, amulets, coats of arms, badges.

Materials: All the shit in boxes chemically bonded to pinbacks, the sands of distant lands, Unicorn Horns, cut class, carbon, twines, fear, cans, colors, magic, paper, tears, laquer, metals, heat, spit, freedom, Gold, stones of the earth, debris, finery, things decomposing; deteriorating, strings, hairs, sunlight, wrappers, slices of organization; dismantled and reorganized, the positive, and the negative, courage, laughter…ctc.

Body Torso 8 ring

I stumbled upon this image on the Ganoksin facebook page.  I like something about this ring very much, but I’m not completely sure what that is.  Maybe it’s the cameo-esque shape of the setting.  And perhaps the objectification of the female form as adornment.  It’s beautiful, though.  I went to the website and was a bit dissapointed in the rest of the artist’s work.  I think I either mistakenly saw more to this piece than was intended, OR- this happened to be the artist’s strongest, most thought provoking piece.  Either way, it’s a really nice ring.

A note to all, on the sidewalk, on Broad St, Philly.

A troubling dream that left me as soon as I woke up, and the resulting insomnia, has kept me home from my normal 8-hour-jewelry-fabricating-monday in Center City.  

Cleaning, eating and reading have filled my time, so far, today. I read a book on Frida Kahlo.   I never took the time to really understand who she was or what she did, or why it was important.

She suffered extreme physical pain, every day, due to a bus accident when she was 18 years old, that left her unable to have children and lucky to be able to walk.  These facts have lead me to further believe that great art comes from human beings who suffer and push through great pains because they believe so vehemently that what they are doing is important.

Arshile Gorky.

Another who’s life I have always viewed with astonishment that he could create art even though he went through such hardships in his life; his mother dying in his arms from starvation, his studio burning to the ground, a horrible car accident, cancer, and finally his wife leaving him, all leading to his suicide at 44.

I saw this work in person at his Retrospective at the PMA last year.  Entitled ‘The Artist and His Mother’, there are a few versions of this painting, based on a photograph.  None of them are finished, however, as the finishing of them would have meant to the artist that his mother was truly gone.  These were my favorites of his work at the show.  And what I will always remember about Gorky are his tragedies, rather than his actual paintings.

So where does that leave me?  With my apathies….my pains pale in comparison.  What have I to make art about?  Credit card debts?

I don’t believe in the value of any of this.  I make trinkets for the rich, literally, bells to wear on their necks. This is my pain.  I get paid for it and it keeps me comfortable but there is no valor in it.

I’ve been thinking for months that maybe I should start painting.

On a lighter note, I’ve submitted an application for Metals Artists residency at the Cheltenham Center for the Arts.  Perhaps I will be accepted to spend a year there, during my scant evening hours and weekends…so that I might counter act the trivialities carried out during my 40 hour work week.

More on that when I find out.

There  were two mothers on the bus today.

The first, was a tall, brown-haired woman with a jowley jaw line that was asymmetrical.  She wore a blue scarf, a blue hat covering greasy, thin, brown bangs and  blue suede, Dr. Martin shoes that were all a similar dusky periwinkle color.  Her coat was a pale camel overcoat that reached to her mid shin.  As they got on, she gripped her little girl’s hand, helping her through the crowded bus.  She must have been about 5 or 6 years old and she wore layers of different shades of pink.  Her mother carried her vinyl-ey, cartoon covered book bag on her own shoulder, like a teenager in high school in the 90′s.   When she let go of her fist, she told the girl,  ”I want you to hold really tightly onto the rail, ok?”  To which the girl said nothing through her equally jowley, but more symmetrical cheeks, and tried to do as her mother dictated.

A few moments later, as the mother tightly gripped the shoulder of her jacket, and the child gripped the shiny steel railing, the girl murmured, “This bus is bumpy…”  The two shared small conversations, brought on mainly by the mother, a seemingly deliberate act of social engagement with the rather spacey child.  The girl, meanwhile, complained, as a woman walked into her view of the reflective window that she was taking amusement in making gestures at and watching her reflection in.  The offending woman heard the frustration in her small voice and moved further on into the depths of the bus.  For another few moments the child stared at a dread-headed man next to her who was talking on his cell phone with headphones on, so he held no actual phone in his hand.  She stared for a few minutes while he talked, as if to himself, trying to figure out what was wrong with him.  Her rosy cheeks showing no embarassment at her forwardness.

I closed my eyes, slightly fearful that my piqued interest might offend or frighten the obviously tense and protective mother.  I imagined pulling out all the love I had received and felt throughout the day and radiating it toward these two foreign beings.  They seemed so insular, cold and confined to each other.  I wondered if they could feel my love for them.   I had the urge to talk to the girl, and had I been anywhere but Philadelphia, the East Coast in general, I would have joined into one of their little conversations.  But the mother seemed to look at everyone with a sense of fear so I refrained.  A few minutes later, after  they were about to get off the bus.  I opened my eyes, and watched them get off at Rittenhouse Square. Just before they got off, the mother tugged at the girls’ fluffy pink hood, but the girl shot her hands up, saying, “I can put it on myself!” in a defiant and annoyed tone.  Then the mother picked the capable child up from under her arms and lifted her down off of the bus.

A few moments later, the next set rolled down the aisle.  This mother wore a puffy, black, shiny  jacket that stopped short just at her waist, so that her round slim figure would not be covered.  Her dark hair was long and pulled back in a simple pony-tail going straight down her back.  She was young, about 20 or so, and the girl about 4.  The babe also wore a black puffy coat, but with brown faux fur on the rim of the hood, dark tights, and little black  Mary Jane shoes.  Her hair erupted in frizzy curls from under the hood of her jacket.

The mother held the girls’ hand as she giggled with delight at nothing in particular.  Then the little girl did a peculiar thing, writhing her back head back so that she was almost bent in half backwards, with nothing keeping her standing except her mothers pulled arm.  She went back and forth between a whiny moan and a joyful squeal.  The mother was slightly furious at this sudden display of hatha-yogic posture and fuss, and she reprimanded her strongly, “You are going to fall, stop it!”  But the child kept pulling and crying and reaching her other arm up as if she wanted to be lifted.  The mother told her again to stop but then simply let go of her hand saying,  ”Alright then, fall.”  in a very nonchalant tone with no anger and no worry as she continued checking the messages on her phone.

The girl just stopped and held onto the rail with a slight whimper.  Then she simply looked around at everyone around her with quiet wonder and freedom.  When it was time for them to leave the bus, the mother grabbed her hand and pulled her along gently, hopping her down off the bus with one hand, and saying “Come on”.