A Paris Confection

This picture makes me deliriously happy. Strong words, I know, but there are so many layers to this painting, it’s like nibbling on a wonderful treat. The first layer, and likely most important, is I found it while hunting at a flea market with a dear friend. Our friendship -deep conversations, treasure hunting and art exploring – is a balm to sooth my soul when I am feeling frayed. She is my “bad influence” friend, encouraging me to splurge on fun treasures we find. This one, fortunately, only set me back $30, so the memories it evokes avoid the guilt of overspending.

The piece is a “paint by number” (PBN) product, dated 1964, and signed by C. Pech. These kits were very popular when I was a child, and I recall painting a few. I so enjoyed following the complex key for color placement, and as an adult enjoyed counted cross stitch for much the same reason. Believe it or not, I did tend to follow the directions, though I cannot swear to it. My quilting friends just collectively raised their eyebrows, as following directions is not my strong suit (though swearing definitely is). I sewed from a young age, and would invariably get in a muddle. When I would ask my mother for assistance, she would get frustrated as I never followed the pattern directions with much diligence. Even now I can hear her stressing how important following directions was. A good lesson, certainly, but not one that seemed to resonate for me. In a Paint By Number project, there are no formal rules – if you feel like painting in blue, off you go, hunting the spots the blue color will go. No one cares about directions!

Regarding the idea of “paint by number” artwork, I wondered about their creation. According to the Oracle, in the early 1950s, Dan Robbins, a Detroit-based commercial artist at Palmer Paint Company, was given a task to find a creative way to sell more paint. In response, he created the first ever Paint By Number kit. My new find, while dated 1964, was done in lovely 1950s colors, and has a sweet, Impressionist imagery.

Much like a candy treat, Art History is the rich center of this find. The work made me think French Impressionist and my curiosity as to why had me recognizing the work’s inspiration. The PBN kit is reminiscent of a famous work of art at the Art Institute in Chicago: “Paris Street; Rainy Day” by Gustave Caillebotte (1848-1894). The piece is huge, gray and rainy, with dark somber colors. I confess that during the many years I toured school children through the Art Institute, I hardly gave this painting a glance. We all have a time in our life when we miss something from our childhood - whether a location now much changed, or a part of daily life now gone. That is what the Caillebotte painting is expressing, the loss of his community. (If you have a spare moment, you should read the Art Institute’s notes on this work:  https://www.artic.edu/artworks/20684/paris-street-rainy-day).

And so, I turn back to my $30 flea market treat. Memories of a cathartic trip to Paris during a very dark time in my life have left me loving Paris. There is nothing to definitively place the PBN in Paris, but I feel fairly certain it is. The composition is similar to Caillebotte’s, with the triangle building slightly left of center, the groupings of people, and the buildings anchoring both left and right edges of the canvas. There is a sole lamppost over the main figures’ right side in both scenes. The PBN adds a tree to fill the canvas, chopping it off at the top much like Caillebotte’s lamppost. And in both, there is a sense of cobbled streets and rainy weather. But the mood is so tangibly different! My paint by number has decided to make the rainy day a lovely Spring, instead of a dreary gray Fall. To offer a warm, inviting scene to step into, instead of a somber scene to skirt around. Spring flowers brighten the sidewalk, and tempting “Confection” is written directly into the work.

The mood of my day just lightened, and my parental worries temporarily took flight. I laughed with my friend as we talked with the vender. The woman had no idea it was a paint by number piece, and my friend proceeded to show her some telltale details (apparently the tree is a giveaway). I happily paid my $30, we picked up our conversation where it was interrupted for our sojourn into the booth, and carted my confection home. Deliriously happy indeed, though I may need to go brush my teeth from all that sweetness.

Russian Rooster Reunion

Sometimes when I am rummaging at flea markets or thrift stores, I find something serendipitous. This charming clay man riding a rooster is one such find. I suspect the work is based on artwork by Marc Chagall, as that was the only “man on a rooster” imagery I could locate either in art or fairy tales. Chagall (1887-1985) was born in Belarus, at that time part of Russia. His art often included roosters, and there is some conjecture he used it as a personal identifier. The rooster symbolizes good luck as well as virility, so my clay man seems to be taking no chances in that regard. Unfortunately, he is not signed, so no idea who made him, why or when. He seems Russian, and the details on his coat create a military vibe. Other than a chipped nose, he is in great condition. When he arrived, it was obvious he was meant to reside by the black lacquer box on our living room mantle.

The black lacquered box was a gift for my parents I brought back from travels in The Soviet Union in 1985. It depicts Pushkin’s tale of the Golden Rooster (not a story for the faint of heart). The box was handmade and painted in Mstoira, Russia, though the artist is not identified. These lacquer works were a huge tourist item in Soviet Russia, and at the time were sold only in government-run stores.

I was living in London in February, 1985 and booked a flight to the USSR on a “tour” program.  I’m not one for organized tours, however, and had picked up a guidebook of wonderful architecture in Russia to explore on my own. When the chartered flight landed in Moscow, no one got up. As a seasoned traveler, I didn’t care for waiting around, promptly disembarked, grabbed my bag, waved at all the guards and sailed through Soviet customs. Then sat for a very long time as every single passenger after me was stopped and searched.

The tour group stayed in a massive Moscow hotel built for the Russian Olympics in 1980. I learned how to navigate the subway system, (involving a lot of hand signals) and meandered around Moscow with my architectural book. I recall one outing with a fellow traveler where we decided to detour to buy cookies. The process was to stand in a line to pay in advance for your item, then take the receipt to stand in yet another line to request them. Not a very efficient process for purchasing food, and not helpful when you don’t speak the language. It turned out I had paid for a ridiculous amount of cookies, and I was handed two large paper bags filled to the brim. After eating a few (they were not up to my sweet tooth standards), I promptly found a young child with a grandmother walking through the park nearby and handed the bags off to them. The look on the child’s face was worth the cost of the trip.

One young man in the tour group, Nick, was of a dubious background – he arrived with many bibles and multiple passports. I did not ask. During one outing, he wanted to buy bread to bring to a family he was visiting, so we crossed a street to enter a bakery. No sooner were we in the shop than a very imposing Soviet policeman tapped me on the shoulder and began speaking (visualize “Starwars Imperial Storm Troopers”). Nick stepped in as he spoke Russian (again, didn’t ask) and we were fined for jaywalking. As we left, I again felt a hand on my shoulder. This time, a young woman, who had witnessed the interaction, was trying to give me her bags of food. Again, Nick translated – the woman was worried we would not be able to buy food as the fine was so large and she did not want us to have a bad impression of Russians.

At this point, Nick went off on an (undisclosed) errand, and I returned to the hotel via a subway, carrying the bread as I didn’t have a bag with me. As I stood in the train, the women around me began to chatter (which was unusual) and eventually one reached out and grabbed the bread. Seriously, I figured, enough already – the bread wasn’t worth the effort. However, as the older women mumbled among themselves, eventually one pulled out a piece of paper, wrapped the loaf of bread, and handed it back to me!

In a peculiar twist of fate, husband and I ended up living in a property in Illinois that had once been a chicken research farm created by Quaker Oats. So now the funny Rooster Man sits next to the Golden Rooster box in our living room and I appreciate the serendipity of their cohabitation.

Heart On My Sleeve

This piece was found at a thrift store in Evanston during the early days of Covid-19. A friend and I had ventured to visit with a potter, Pat Gordon (Left Hand Ceramics). She was a widow, who had enrolled at the Evanston Art Center after her husband’s death. She then found a passion for pottery. Her work is charming, quirky and colorful, and I had been attracted to it immediately during a visit to an EAC winter sale. (As an aside, if you live in the area you really should go to this event each year, held after Thanksgiving, as a huge variety of artists of all mediums display and sell their works). Pat had invited my friend and me to see her work in her apartment, wearing our masks of course, and we both were charmed.

Afterwards, having both purchased a few pieces, we ventured to a nearby thrift store. This artwork, beautifully framed, was for sale for over $100, a rather steep thrift store price. My dear friend and I have been visiting flea markets and thrift stores together for over 25 years, and she is a dreadful influence on my self-control. Of course, she agreed it was fabulous and I needed to purchase it. Something about it appealed to me. The colors are wonderful, and compliment my living room décor. As I look at the picture now, I realize there is a patchwork sensibility to the clothing and bird, so likely that spoke to me as well.

The art is signed by “Alexandrov”, and is a hand colored etching – meaning the artist produced prints, and then hand colored the image. This one is #25 out of a run of 29. Google Image Search again proved itself remarkable – when I searched just the image, very little came up that was relevant. When I added “Alexandrov” to the search, bingo! Mikhail Alexandrov was born in Lithuania in 1949 and emigrated to the United States in 1979. He is known as a “Russo-mystic artist”; an odd way of saying he is of Russian background, and creates artwork with a strong fantastical (or mystical) slant.

As the artist is considered surreal and mystic in his use of symbolism, the artwork tempts us to read into the scene. There is a sense of battle to the image, though other than the peculiar hat and odd box with arrow behind the man (and I do think it is a man), there is no carnage evident. The battle was internal – the man’s face is drawn, his clothing disheveled, and hair a damp, sweaty mess. I cannot say why, but I sense the bird represents the man’s heart.

Our collective imagery often depicts an angel - or a soul – with the characteristics of a bird. Angels have wings, often elaborate feathered creations. We depict Angels flying to the heavens, like birds. There is a steam punk quality to the bird and the man’s chest –his body is literally a cage. And the bird seems mechanical – almost appearing as an airplane. I feel the sense of a metaphoric struggle within the man’s emotions, and what springs to my mind is the idea of “wearing your heart on your sleeve”. The bird, having escaped his chest, literally sits on his sleeve.

The term “wear your heart on your sleeve” actually originated with Shakespeare. It shows up in Othello, spoken by Iago:

“For when my outward action doth demonstrate

The native act and figure of my heart

In complement extern, 'tis not long after

But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve

For [birds] to peck at: I am not what I am.”

Iago is implying that by being open with his feelings, he would be attacked – much like a bird pecking at him. There is some conjecture the imagery originated with the idea of a “sleeve” being armor worn during medieval jousts, and a knight wearing a lady’s ribbon on his arm to show which lady the knight favors (or vice versa).  

In our modern world, wearing your heart on your sleeve is used to describe someone who is open with their emotions. This can be both for good and bad. I have been accused by numerous folks over the years, specifically a number of my siblings, as being “too emotional”. In fact one sibling went so far as to dismiss my intelligence, indicating as I was “emotional” I could not be intellectual. And thus, my ideas were summarily dismissed.

The truth is that being emotional is not the opposite of being intelligent, contrary to what one brother said. There is a vast spectrum of emotional expression -from the shutdown, emotionally withdrawn nature of depression, to a hurricane of emotion whirling through your relationships. I cannot say one way or another where I land on that spectrum, and suspect I have seen both ends of it. Feeling deep emotions is not a flaw, but it does require great strength to know how to navigate. Unfortunately, for the majority of my youth, this was not a fostered process; and in fact, was mostly punished with spanking, locked rooms, or withdrawing of privileges (including toys and comfort). A child who finds herself locked in a room, punished for strong feelings, does not actually learn how to navigate relationships, and this was a struggle I had to deal with for years. A long marriage, the raising of 3 children, and the bond of dear friends has managed to help me. As has a great deal of therapy. So, yes, I too wear my heart on my sleeve. And I sense a kinship with this “Russo-mystic” artwork. Please be gentle with my heart. I give it gladly but I’d rather it didn’t fly away.

Pottery by Pat Gordon

Gum’s Gift From Gumps

This ring was purchased by my mother Barbara F. Humphrey (1928-2021) at Gumps Department Store in San Francisco in the mid 1970s. While it is a wonderful token of my mother that I wear every day, the story behind it reveals that sometimes these small family heirlooms can hide interesting tales. If the stories are not passed down, future generations simply think “huh, mom’s ring; not sure it’s my style” and off it goes to some resale location. Mind you, I am ok with that process as no one should need to “keep” every darn thing that is important to prior generations, but the stories are important and should be understood before the treasures wander off.

My paternal great grandmother, Margaret LeBoutille Strong (1874-1905) suffered depression after her 4th child, Katharine (1904-1987), was born. Katharine was my grandmother, and while her family called her Kat, her grandchildren called her Gum. There are no first-hand accounts about Margaret’s postpartum depression, though it was known she spent time in a Sanatorium in Atlantic City after the birth. Unfortunately, at some point after her return to their home, she shot herself when my grandmother was only 5 months old. Sadly, soon after their mother’s death, one of the boys contracted whooping cough, which was fatal to their 3-year-old sister Peggy. During all this, the children resided with a neighbor, and my grandmother was sent to live at a hospital to avoid the illness. Not a great way to begin life sadly.

Margaret with Katharine and Peggy c. 1904

Ben Strong remarried in 1907 when he was 35 and Kat was three. While they had two daughters, it was not a happy union. His bride, Katharine Converse, was only 18, and the couple was mismatched in many ways.  Not least because his new wife was from a very wealthy banking family, and her father strongly opposed Ben Strong going into public service. Ben choose to accept a job building the Federal Reserve, though this did not provide income in the style his wife Katharine was accustomed. They had to give up their lavish apartment on 5th Avenue in Manhattan, and at her father’s urging, she took her two young daughters, Elizabeth and Barbara, with her and left for California in 1916. Ben, it should be noted, had contracted tuberculosis that year, and struggled the remainder of his life with the illness, and the use of morphine to manage the pain. Katharine eventually filed for divorce in 1921, which devastated my great grandfather. He died in 1928, from complications of surgery when he was only 55.

I don’t believe my grandmother kept in touch with her step mother, though she may have communicated with her half-sisters. Growing up, I was completely unaware of their existence. I understood from my mother that Gum was bitter about her step-mother, both for leaving her father as well as herself, as she too was abandoned -again- as a young girl of 12, losing 2 young sisters in the process. Having gone through all my grandmother’s family photos, I only found one photo which included all Ben’s children, with the two half-sisters around age 2 and 4. There is also one set of photos of the girls as young women, likely sent to Gum later as when Ben died, those girls would only have been 12 or so. I suspect Gum got rid of all the others, including any photo of the ex-stepmother. And she did not keep any correspondence with Elizabeth and Barbara, so the state of their relationship remains a mystery.

However, Ben had created a trust for his ex-wife after she left him, which was not really necessary as Katharine Converse’s father was very wealthy. It was not until the ex-stepmother died in the 1970s that my grandmother inherited some of the proceeds from that trust. Mom said Gum decided to gift the funds to her three sons’ wives, as it was money she was bitter about receiving.

My Mom always said this jade ring from Gumps Department Store was a treat she bought herself in honor of Gum. The ring is 18K gold and is set with a cabochon apple jade stone, also known as Imperial Jade. My mother, as was very typical of her, gave the ring to one of her daughters. In this case, my eldest sister, sometime in the 1980s. That sister is 8 years older than I am, and had gone to both boarding school and college, so I had not grown up with her at home. During high school and college, I would visit her in NYC. She was always generous to me, gifting me with lovely “hand-me-downs”, as well as bringing me to many wonderful art shows in New York City. At some point, the Gumps ring was gifted to me.

Here’s where things get complicated. Mom always joked that with 4 daughters, who often passed things around, she could never recall which daughter had what heirloom. In typical fashion, another sister wanted the Gumps ring, and in 2010 I swapped it for a ring with a huge cabochon sapphire. Unfortunately, that ring was more a “statement” ring, not one you could wear daily, as the sapphire was large and the ring not exactly attractive. It also had a tale associated with it that irked me no end. Back in the 1980s, in cleaning out boxes of family heirlooms, Mom came across a gold stick pin marked Tiffany’s which belonged to my great grandfather Ben Strong (1872 -1928). Realizing the stone was likely not glass, she brought it to a local jeweler in Pittsburgh. That jeweler created the large sapphire ring for mom, “melting down” the stick pin and a few other gold heirlooms Mom brought him. I suspect he did NOT melt the Tiffany pin and it was always remarkably sad to me that the sapphire was separated from the original Tiffany item, along with other gold heirlooms lost in the “melting” process. 

In Spring of 2013 husband, daughter and I took a trip to San Francisco, and I thought to see if I could simply buy another jade ring at the Gumps Department Store. Well dang. I soon learned there was a prohibition in place (from 2008 to 2016) blocking the import of Imperial Jade from Myanmar due to the political issues in that country. Myanmar is the main producer of the high-quality Imperial jade. As such, the rings for sale at Gumps were prohibitively expensive (well over $5,000). While at the store, my young daughter said she missed the jade ring. So, how to get it back?!

Unfortunately after my father had died in 2010, there was a bit of drama among my siblings, and I had fractured relationships with a number of them. Jade ring sister included. After some negotiations, a brother coordinated a swap, where I returned the darn sapphire ring and got the jade ring back. I wear it every day, and while it is a simple ring, the tale behind it, of my grandmother and her sisters, reminds me each day that “simple” things can have complicated stories. People often compliment the ring, as its hip 1970s vibe is popular these days. I smile and acknowledge it was my mother’s ring from Gumps. And in my heart, treasure Gum’s Gumps ring.

Dante At The Circus

This charming artwork came home with me from a local estate sale. The owner of the estate had collected a great deal of “modern” art, none of which even slightly appealed to me. This piece, however, was tucked in the basement, and I gravitated to it immediately. It cost me $35 and is signed “Dante H.” and dated 1948. A friend suggested it would need to be reframed, however I didn’t feel the same. Many times, vintage art work is framed in a definable era, and this framing feels very 1970s, not the 1940s era of its creation. As I wanted to hang it in my 1970s Calder Circus room, the frame’s vibe worked just fine.

The art work is an original, made with paint, pen and ink. At first glance the design seems childlike, but is in fact somewhat complex. The “tent” background likely was done first, in the style of Jackson Pollock (1912-1956) – as a splatter painting around three circle items laid on top. This created the sense of the holes at the top of a circus tent. (Pollock’s most famous “drip” paintings began in 1947). Then Dante H. sketched in the edges of the tent, making you recognize you are looking skyward to see the performers. The optics are masterfully done – you see the art straight on, but you realize it is oriented above your head.

Mr. H. then inked and painted in the performers. What fun representations! The two bicyclists have fabulous pink and red shirts with tight brown leggings – why do I sense they are Italian?! Of course, with the name Dante, it may be actually true. Mr. H. even differentiated the skin tones, so each performer is unique. The third performer sits upon a chair, suspended on a bar slung across the bicyclists’ shoulders. Our anxiety ratchets up a tad, and his elongated body creates the sense of distance in the sky above us. And then, balanced on his head, is the wonderful figure of the female performer – wearing a skimpy top and tutu skirt, arms and hair out flying. The artist has created a sense of movement, the bicycles whizzing along the trapeze, the chair sitter stretching upward and the dancing woman spinning overhead.

I do wish I could find out more about Mr. Dante H. from 1948. Google has no idea, and he remains a mystery. His artwork keeps company with my Calder and I suspect the two artists are chuckling in the sky above us at their cohabitation in a quirky farm house in Libertyville!

Wag On The Wall

This clock came home from a local flea market about 25 years ago. I vaguely recall it cost $20. The clock was manufactured by St. Aubin, a now defunct company in Switzerland, and was made c.1940. Its ticking and chimes have marked my children’s lives ever since. 

For those unfamiliar, this is a mechanical clock. The power comes from the heavy weights that drop by gravity, powering the clock’s movements. The swinging pendulum regulates the timekeeping, and every hour the clock will strike the count of the hour, as well as ding once on every half hour. It is an “8-day clock”, meaning if you let it go for more than 8 days, the weights hit the floor and the entire thing grinds to a halt. The raised brass numbers and rings are embedded into the wood, creating the clock face. The movements are enclosed in a wood case behind the face, but the pendulum and weights are exposed. This is considered a “wag on the wall” clock. The term comes from the similarity of the pendulum swinging back and forth to a dog wagging its tale. While the pendulum is original, the long metal weights are new, as about 5 years ago the original ones gave up the ghost.

Speaking of ghosts, this clock most certainly has to be treated by a “clock doctor” to keep up its stamina. Much like a family dog, it needs attention periodically, and every few years has an expensive medical crisis. This clock tends to run slow, but recently it simply stopped running altogether. The pendulum would not keep swinging, and thus it stayed silent. I put up with random issues for a long while, before I finally give up and haul it to my local clock doctor as I was concerned it was in the final stages of demise.

The clock doc, who is Russian, diagnosed significant back problems. The glue holding the casing together along a mitered seam had caused the wood to warp. This resulted in the box going catawampus, putting pressure on the pendulum mechanism where it attaches to the clock gears. Thus the pendulum ground to a halt. The last visit required significant surgery, clamps included. Doc indicated he added pins and new glue and feels it should hold up for another 50 years or so.

But like any dog, my clock demands pampering. Each week the weights need to be lifted back to the top, resetting the pendulum swinging. Sometimes the pendulum does not stay in motion, and requires an annoying readjustment of the hour hands. Other times the chime begins to sound like a thunk, not its typical resonant ding, requiring me to dust it. In addition, it is known to tack on an extra hourly strike. When you’re lying awake at 3:00 am, the sound of the clock ringing gets your attention. Then begins the ring count. Hit or miss if it is accurate, either because I can’t count at 3am, or because the clock likes to mess with me. I tend to think the latter as periodically during the day I will stop to count the rings, and often they are right back where they should be. Kind of like a puppy who innocently looks at you though you know it’s up to no good.

To keep the time accurate, the pendulum needs to be raised or lowered, and for the life of me I can never recall if twisting the nut to raise the round base increases the speed or decreases it. I’ve been known to fiddle around with it, and eventually give up – hauling it yet again for another stay at the Russian Clock Hospital. (Just so you know, that is a jest – the clock shop has a name, but I think of it as a clock hospital, complete with procedural charges not covered by insurance). And, in case you are overly concerned, the Oracle says: “Turning the nut to the right speeds up the clock, and turning it to the left slows it down (in other words move the nut up to speed up, or down to slow down)”. This makes sense from a physics point of view, as the lowering of the nut makes the round weight sit lower on the stem, creating a wider arc which would take more time to swing back and forth. Thus time would slow.

Wonderful idea: time would slow. It seems only yesterday our eldest child came home from the hospital, but in fact it was 33 years ago tomorrow. I read a line in a novel yesterday, and to paraphrase: somehow 33 years have conspired to get past us and leave us looking back, amazed to find so many years stacked behind us (The Book That Wouldn’t Burn, Mark Lawrence). The ticking of a clock tells us time has a set speed at which it will run. Yet life doesn’t seem to work that way. Somehow, as you age, you realize time speeds up. The ability to capture a moment – to stop time and appreciate this second right now – is a bittersweet joy of getting older. The chaotic demands of parenthood, the stress of getting everything done, the endless to-do lists, so like a clock as it ticks: to-do, to-do, to-do. In the end, all those things mean very little, and it is the memories of each moment we hope to hold on to. In some ways it is easier in our modern age with cameras always in our pockets. But it is also harder – if all you do is take a photo, have you really experienced that moment? Capturing memories in writing can preserve them for future generations in a way photos cannot. Having dug through generations of my ancestors’ pictures recently, the reality is those pictures meant very little to me. When a note was found which described the image, it created a more poignant connection. And helped identify the mysterious individuals from the mid 1800s.

The ticking clock lets us know that moment is over, gone into history. And each moment stacks up on another, spinning the hands of the clock ever forward. Take a moment to pause, to recognize that NOW is a gift, a moment that you can stop and savior. It will not come again – but if you are lucky, all those pendulum swings will produce a life you are proud of. And we are very proud of our son.

Appreciating Papercuts

James David, 1990

This piece of art was a thrift shop find a few years back. It is not dated nor signed but I found a few similar ones online that were attributed to a James David and dated 1990. The others are not complete circles, but done in a similar manner. This one seems to be the pièce de résistance of this artist’s work. I could not discover any information about the who, why, where or when, and a common name such as James David will make it impossible to find a specific person. Unfortunate. I would love to know the story behind these projects.

There is a style of art, common in German ancestry, called “scherenschnitte” which translates as “scissor cuts”. This artwork became very popular in the early 1890s in the U.S., and much of it has a primitive, folk style feel. The history (from the Oracle): “[scherenschnitte] often has rotational symmetry within the design, and common forms include silhouettes, valentines, and love letters. The art was founded in Switzerland and Germany in the 16th century and was brought to Colonial America in the 18th century by…immigrants who settled primarily in Pennsylvania.” (1) This piece is composed of cut paper, though not in a folk style, and it requires a moment to appreciate.

From a distance it appears a simple 20” square geometric design in blue and white. With a quick glance, it reads as a printed composition, possibly even painted. However, it actually is a layered construction of cut paper. James David, whoever he is, started with a large square of dark blue paper. He then began cutting cream papers to overlay the blue. The first layer added the vertical stripes to create the 12 arched window silhouettes. After that, James David cut 5 additional layers, with widening openings to create the depth of this piece. 

Now, I don’t have a clue how he did it, but you should appreciate the technical skill in making those lines consistent and smooth. I imagine he used a sharp razor, ruler edge and pencil markings, but any mistakes would be glaring. It reminds me of a story regarding a long-ago neighbor.

A young couple had moved into a house next to us, and the husband started tackling many significant house projects. This included a major overhaul of the small kitchen, and he laboriously installed tiles around the countertops. One day he asked me to come see his handiwork. In typical Erica fashion, I entered, looked around admiringly, and then asked about one small section that looked “off”. Well, yes, he admitted, he had been frustrated in that area, and gave up, simply making something do. Unfortunately for him, my eye immediately saw the dis-symmetry and I learned later he spent hours swearing about me and redoing that section.

While many of us admire applique quilting and oil paintings as being wonderful creations, the truth is those types of construction allow for mistakes to be incorporated. In contrast, a small error can stand out in a way that destroys the overall design in a pieced quilt work, tile work, and, in this case, paper cut art. Yes, the neighbor should be acknowledged for all his efforts. But without identifying a mistake, the project will not read as “perfect”. And that can be just fine. As one of my friends often says “done is good”.

This piece, by James David, is so good it almost seems machine made. In our modern life, things like this often only get a cursory glance, and are dismissed as “yeah, cool but any machine could make that”. But a machine did NOT make this. The point of these treasures, in our ever-evolving world of AI and machines, is appreciating the labor someone spent in the creation. The joy is in the construction, certainly, but also in the appreciation. And I do have to wonder how many papercuts his fingers suffered through. 

(1)         https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Scherenschnitte

Five Dollar Flower Girl

This tiny piece of art depicting a literal flower girl was donated to a church rummage sale where I picked it up for $5. She was made by “H” in 1955 and the back states: ”All from nature; made exclusively from natural pressed plant materials”. The artwork is of a girl, with seed eyes and pink lips made from a flower sliver. The voluminous purple skirt is a flower petal, and in her violet hair she wears a charming headband of tiny flowers. She’s holding a bouquet of Queen Anne’s Lace, and she brings to mind my wedding in 1987.

I was not particular about many of the details of my wedding, other than wanting fresh roses. I never even went wedding dress shopping. My sister was married in 1980, and as we have similar body shapes (curves and boobs basically), my mother and she thought I might like to wear her dress. The dress had been “stored” professionally in a dry-cleaning box, and was at my parents’ home in Pittsburgh. I arrived in town, and for reasons I cannot recall, was home alone the day I tried on the dress. As I wiggled into it and pulled up the sleeves, I had to reach behind to do up the zipper. All the lace along the left shoulder and sleeve basically imploded. Oh. My. God. I crumbled into a pile on the floor overwrought that I had destroyed my sister’s wedding dress. As the dress was ruined, my mother, a talented seamstress, used parts of it to fashion a “new” dress in a style that suited me. My sister ended up having 3 sons so her lack of a dress to “pass on” did not cause distress. I have one daughter, who is significantly taller than I am, so my mother’s creation remains in my closet without a purpose. And not in a “professionally cleaned” package I should note.

With the newly created dress, I wore a simple headband in my hair instead of a veil.  The florist embellish the headband with small roses, and my sisters styled my hair. Truthfully they also did my makeup, insisting I wear mascara. I carried a bouquet of lovely blush roses, and the boutonniere on the men’s ‘morning suits’ were roses as well. Another aside – I absolutely love the look of a man in a tuxedo (trashy novels, sorry). My mother, however, insisted the men should wear morning suits instead of tuxedos as the wedding was early in the day. Again, not being too particular, I didn’t stress the idea. Now, though, wondering why the heck that was important to Mom, I turned to the Oracle. Morning dress, or formal day dress, is the traditional attire worn by men at daytime events in the presence of His Majesty The King. The tradition originated from the  practice of gentlemen in the 19th century riding a horse in the morning with a cutaway front, single-breasted, morning coat. I’ll let you google the image to see what it looks like.

Back to my wedding, sans King but with morning suits. I had also requested the cake be iced in a basket weave, with fresh roses placed on top. As we were getting ready to depart to the church, the cake arrived from the bakery absolutely covered in pink icing roses. I was in a bit of a panic – tacky pink icing flowers were not a crisis but certainly ratcheted up my distress. Mom took one look at it and told them to take it away, remove the icing flowers and return it cleaned up. I would love to write all went smoothly from that point forward, but that isn’t how things transpired.

My parent’s home was walking distance to the St. Paul Cathedral in Pittsburgh where we – both raised Catholic – were marrying. My family arrived to a completely empty church. Mind you, as it was a small wedding, we were using the lovely side chapel as the vacuous cathedral was too imposing. That said, no guests were there. 10:00 came and went, and the priest was starting to panic as he didn’t want to delay too long as there were other ceremonies planned for later. But it would be a tad odd to hold a wedding with virtually no guests in attendance. This was pre-cellphone life, so no way to communicate with any of the missing guests. I remember waiting with my family, teeth chattering away with nerves, while various siblings went to speak with husband-to-be and his family in another area of the church. Eventually the guests began arriving, and we learned the roads to the area had been closed for hours that morning due to a city parade. All the guests, staying at a hotel a few miles away, had been stuck in taxis, unable to get to the church on time. Bride and groom got to the church on time but no one else did!

Now we are heading into our 38th year of marriage, and hubby humors my continued hunting for treasures. A recent treasure, this charming flower girl is nearly 70 years old! And as a good friend would say: “bless her heart”- she doesn’t look much older than when she was created. Colors may be faded a tad, and the wrinkles on her face may have become a bit more pronounced, but all in all she’s holding up darn well. She would fit right in with those fancy men wearing their morning suits while visiting with His Majesty The King.

Ruby Ring With Diamond Clusters

“Sticks and stones may break my bones but words can never hurt me.”

How many of us recall this childhood ditty? Have recited it either to our younger selves or to a child? The saying first emerged in England in 1894, and is commonly used to make children feel resilient in the face of verbal bullying; words are not able to hurt. This is not true. Words carry significant weight. When used by a contemporary bully, words are weapons to shame or embarrass people, incite violence, create concerns about safety, or faith in our institutions. These are pointed attacks, shrugged off with a reliance on “first amendment”, as though the amendment allows us to hurt people since it’s “only words” and we can say what we want. These are delivered daily through loud systems that are hard to avoid. Printed news, news spread through sound waves and through the megaphone of the internet. These words are the weapon of bullies. And I have never been able to stand a bully.

When I was in elementary school in Darien, CT, there was a girl a grade ahead of me with the unfortunate name of Francis Freeman. In retrospect I think she had some significant health issue as she clearly had physical problems and had the added disadvantage of having matured sooner than the rest of us – meaning she was tall, curvy, and had seizures of some type. I was likely in 5th grade – so maybe 10 – when at recess one day the boys had formed a circle around Francis and were taunting her. Childhood is painful enough for young women with the handicaps Francis had, and I was angry the boys were being so mean. I broke into the circle and began to punch them, allowing Francis to get away. I do not recall the likely trip to the school office, but I do know I never was punished. Standing up to bullies is not always easy, as words may not deflate their power. A nice solid punch can certainly do the trick when you’re ten, though at my current age, throwing punches is frowned upon.

And what, pray tell, does this have to do with the charming piece of art portrayed above? This painting speaks to me of childhood, and the recognition that words can both wound and heal. The work is painted on a wood board, and is signed with initials “EDL”. I picked her up at a local flea market many years ago from a dealer who finds wonderful vintage artwork (Dale’s Upstairs Gallery, Racine, WI). I love the remarkably brief use of lines to sketch out a face amid the soft color wash across the surface. It is a face of a young girl with a long pony tail, and a little curl escaping down her forehead. The technique used is not one I am familiar with, though I suspect gesso, and guess c.1920. I could be way off base on this one as it is just a hunch and one that honestly does not matter. It is the little curl that speaks to me.

As a child, I was not known for being particularly cooperative. In fact, I suspect both my parents let out a loud guffaw from heaven at that remarkable understatement. I was a strong-willed child, often in trouble from my not very emotionally-sensitive parents. They had 6 other children, and my siblings for the most part were brilliant students who behaved as required by my very strict father. I did not. My father would say “A’s were average, B’s were bad”: my siblings all got A’s. I went for C’s. Dad would say “go right”, and I would stick out my tongue and go left. I would be spanked, of course, as this was the 1960s, but it never stopped me. What did stop me was my mother’s words.

To encourage positive behavior, she would often site a Henry Longfellow poem from 1887 in a sing song tone (being able to sing is NOT one of our family’s strengths):

“There was a little girl, who had a little curl, right in the middle of her forehead. And when she was good, she was very very good, but when she was bad she was horrid”.  

A peculiar childhood rhyme, and one that does not end well for the rambunctious girl as her parents “did spank her most emphatic”. Mom never cited the last few stanzas, which is ironic as those actually do reflect my childhood experience. That said, mom’s use of the “little girl with a little curl” made me pause.

I didn’t want to be considered horrid, so the alternate path was to be very, very good. Highly unlikely, but an aspiration certainly if I wanted my parents’ approval. I confess this was not often inducement enough, though the fact I still recall it makes me realize it is like a sound worm – something that stays with you, imbedding itself in your consciousness. Let’s be honest here, the words are not actually all that emotionally encouraging for a young girl. Longfellow certainly did not like girls to be exuberant; behavior he indicated prompted spanking.

Another childhood ditty my mother would say does not seem to be a common one. I suspect it was handed down to her from her mother, Frieda Hermes Fallon (1898-1961) – a single mother in the Depression in Chicago who had ridiculously expensive taste. Mom would encourage me to get ready for bed, and then decide what I earned as she tucked me in. I might have earned a “ruby ring”. If I was a bit more stellar in her estimation, I would earn a “ruby ring with diamonds clusters”. The crème de le crème was to earn a “ruby ring with diamond clusters and an emerald on top”. Mind you I was likely 5 as I recall these silly games, but dang did I want that ruby ring with diamond clusters and an emerald on top. 

Amusingly, I have often used a similar phrase with hubby, but with a twist. When we are joking about me having done something he appreciates, I will jest that the diamond bracelet he is getting me for a gift just got bigger. We laugh, but underneath the laughter I recognize the childhood desire to please. Simple words that my children I’m sure have overheard and dismissed as silly. But words are not silly. They have power and can be used as a weapon. Or they can open hearts with encouragement, with humor and with love.

Little Yappy Dog

c. 1968

I have had this sweet tray since I was 5 and living in Chappaqua, NY. Our house, with its huge stone walls, was partway up a steep, winding road and my girlfriend lived at the bottom of the hill. I would walk (alone…at five years of age…) down to her home, cutting through some yards to shorten the winding path.

My friend’s home seemed ancient, with small rooms and very creaky floors. Looking back, I suspect it was built in early 1800s. It had a shed garage storing a very old Model T Ford with a rumble seat. The girl -whose name is long gone in my memory – and I played on that car for hours.

The reason I suspect I was gifted the tray is because they had a little, yappy dog. Honestly, I’m not minding the idea that everyone who owns a little, yappy dog needs to gift me something, but that’s an aside. The real issue is that the dog was nasty, and particularly didn’t like strangers in its house. So, it bit me – I still have the scar on my forearm. Problem was it had not been given a rabies vaccine, and there was great concern. So off I went to Dr. West’s house. Back in the day, the doctor’s office was his home – I even remember him making house calls. But realistically, with a family with 7 children, that may have been good business sense. I don’t recall the details but I vaguely recall I had a round of extremely unpleasant shots.

And so, the girl’s mother painted the tray for me as a get-well gift. As I wrote this essay, I could not recall the original artist name who created the charming girl character. Before you get on your millennial high horse, I did try google image search, and oddly it insisted it was the Morton Salt character. Yellow raincoat and umbrella maybe? A bit later - most likely in the middle of the night - I dredged up the name: Joan Walsh Anglund. I suspect there are a few more of you out there that had these books back in the 1960s. This tray, which hangs in my sewing room, always brings a smile to my face, regardless of the nasty yappy dog.

Walker In The Wood

This funny sculpture, which Husband thought a bit creepy, speaks to me of the wisdom of trees. He hitched a ride home with me from a thrift store recently, and I paid the exorbitant price of $30. There is something very primitive about sculptures created out of bark. I was not familiar with this as an art form, but, like many things, it turns out there is a subculture of “bark carving” and “pyrography”, both of which are used here. Bark carving has a long history, and is found in most indigenous communities worldwide, including Native American cultures. In addition, oddly, it seems it was very popular in Scandinavian culture, going back to the 18th century. Pyrography, in turn, is used during the carving to add texture and color to pieces – it means literally “writing with fire”, and is used here on some of the inset sections which show as black.

This piece, signed “JP” and dated 2013 on the back, seems to speak to the idea of a spirit -or two- hidden among the trees. Hand carved with two bearded male faces, and numerous textural ladders, or windows, peeking out from the raw bark. If you look at it closely, you realize the carvings must require skill to keep the piece from breaking. The still raw bark and the carved sections work together to create a unique expression. I sometimes look at it and think “Lord of the Rings” but other times, feel much more like “middle ages conquering wizards”. Many bark carved pieces are referred to as “gnarly” which is remarkably appropriate. The word derives from “gnarl” meaning full of knots. And certainly, these are gnarly wizards!

This carving also makes me think of all the woodlands of my life, and how connected we can be to the power of trees to inspire us. The truth is trees are vital for our well-being, both due to their processing of oxygen, but also for the majesty and awe they  inspire. How many of us had the joy in childhood of playing among trees? Either building forts, climbing them, or using their quiet to instill peace in our lives? I, for one, have done all these things. And on our property we have cared for Grandmother Willow – a fabulous, gnarled old willow tree that my children spent years climbing, creating twig crowns, and swinging from. Sadly, Grandmother has been dying of old age for years now, and I do not have the heart to cut her down, even though she is significantly dead – ok, honestly, at this point she is likely completely dead. But the tree offered our family so much joy I cannot part with her. Possibly I will need to find a “bark carver” in my area and have them harvest some bark to create a memory infused sculpture for Grandmother Willow to live on.

I think of the Disney movie “Pocahontas” with a Grandmother Willow as well as the book The Giving Tree and notice how these are tales which include the power of trees to speak about love, history and wisdom. In college I studied literature and poetry, and wrote poetry as well. One poem was about walking in the woods, but unfortunately, that specific poem seems to have gone missing. I do, however, remember the opening line: “I am a walker in the wood”.

Gird Your Loins

My mother (Barbara F. Humphrey 1928-2021) purchased this painting in an art gallery in Stamford, Connecticut in 1973. She always said she wanted me to have it (she wrote on the back “this is for Erica”). It depicts the legend of St. Martha in France. The artist, Barbara B. Falk (born 1928), was a “self-taught” artist, though highly acclaimed in her day. The back of the painting has an artist note attached:

St. Martha, Patron Saint of Housewives

According to the Provencal legend Martha, sister of Mary Magdalene, preached to the people of Aix and its vicinity. The region was being ravaged by a dragon called The Tarasque, which during the day lay concealed in the Rhone. Martha tamed the creature by pouring a pitcher of holy water over its head. The site of the legend is now the location of the city of Tarascon.

The painting has wonderful coloring of celadon greens and muted blues. The perspective is skewed – look at the size of those flowers in the foreground, compared with the little tree on the left side. The depiction of Martha’s face is primitive in style, though there are  complex details in the lace and dragon. The entire composition has a lovely, calm feel.

That said, research indicates the story it represents is not actually all that lovely nor calm.

The detailed version, dating from the 1100s, was more bloody. This monster was said to  inhabit the forested banks of the Rhone around Tarascon (then called “the black place” or Nerluc due to the turbulent water). The creature lurked in the river sinking boats and attacked men trying to cross. It was described as a dragon: half animal, half fish, with sword like teeth. The townspeople appealed to St. Martha for help, and she found the animal in the act of devouring a man. She sprinkled holy water on its head while brandishing a cross, making it submissive. She then tied her girdle around its neck, leading it to the villagers who cast rocks upon it until it died.

Shall we even begin to unpack the symbolism in THAT tale?! While I suspect much of it is Christian in nature, the idea that Martha used her girdle to yoke in the monster strikes me as the most powerful. And yet, here she is very daintily clad in lovely white lace with not a girdle in sight. The monster also appears much like a cat enjoying a good scratch, with sated half-closed eyes, and passively closed mouth -nary a sword-like tooth in sight. Obviously this is the sanitized version of the tale, and a lovely one it is.

As an aside, I also researched the bridge as I wondered if it was Roman. It seems the area had a Roman built bridge but over time it had deteriorated. There is, however, the remains of a bridge constructed in 1177 in the area, which is an UNESCO World Heritage site. The remains include 3 arches and the St. Nicholas chapel seen on the right. This bridge was, at the time, the only link across the Rhone and created a major pilgrimage stop for Avignon for those traveling to Italy. 

The biblical story of Martha and her sister Mary, which predates Martha’s arrival in France, is important in understanding my mother’s sympathy to St. Martha. Poor Martha was always stuck in the kitchen, preparing all the food for the crowds visiting Christ in their home, while her sister Mary Magdalen sat listening to Christ and not lifting a finger. Martha complained, and Christ admonished her, saying basically each person has their role in life and hers was to toil away in the kitchen.

Don’t get me started on the patriarchal issues in this bible story. Suffice it to say, Mom felt poor Martha got the short end of the stick, and she always had empathy for being stuck in a kitchen preparing food for crowds (she did have 7 children after all). Thus, this painting hung in my mother’s kitchen for the remainder of her life. When she resided in a care facility, the painting hung near her bed. Upon her death, I retrieved it, and it now hangs in my kitchen.

We all have dragons to tame in our lives, and the inspiration of Martha and her girdle is both practical and wise: the bible used the term “gird your loins” to indicate you should tuck those long robes into a girdle (or belt) so they will not hamper your physical activity. So, get going gals, gird your loins and tackle your dragons. Martha would approve.

Misty Fog

A few days ago I discovered something interesting. I had ventured into SEVEN thrift stores throughout the day, mainly because our weather has had me cooped up and bored. Remarkably, I did not find a thing in six of them, and only at the last did I buy this charming 1960s oil painting for $24. However, this painting isn’t really what I “discovered”, though I will discuss her in a bit.

December and January have been busy months with holidays and crummy weather, on top of my finally getting hit with the Covid bug. I noticed over these weeks that the font of inspiration for writing had been a tad dry. When I started my blog, there were weeks I simply could not stop writing – ideas and inspirations would wake me up in the middle of the night. However, of late I had a bit of anxiety that my “writing well” was drying up, and I wasn’t sure I liked that idea. Mind you, there are virtually no financial benefits to all this writing, but I have loved the new relationships and communications my ramblings have inspired. As I often have 10 or more “blog posts” in the works, I had things to work on, and tried not to panic as the month slipped by. I did wonder if “lack of inspiration” could be yet another Covid side effect.

Then after a wonderful yoga class (thank you Radka!) I decided to go thrifting on my way home. As mentioned, I picked up nothing, but most of my focus was finding specific things for my daughter’s new home. My children will tell you I am a bit like a dog with a bone – give me a theme/project/request and I go into OCD overdrive. I will do very little else until I accomplish whatever goal I have. Probably why making a quilt goes so quickly for me – I literally have to finish things! I thank my father’s genetics for that “gift”, and we’ll leave it at that.

As I drove and poked around stores, I let my mind wander. As the day was ending, I stopped at a final store and discovered this painting. That evening I noticed a number of ideas begin percolating. I realized, for me, trolling through the discards of our society, and finding handmade and vintage items inspires me, even if I don’t buy something. Stories, connections and ideas start to spin in my mind. I find inspiration in many ways – yoga, rock climbing, walking through nature, visiting art, experiencing travel and cultures. As well as thrifting! It is important to find what inspires your creativity and simply appreciate it.

This charming girl brightened my day. I am puzzled by her, not least because I cannot read the signature. I think Hannigan, and I suspect a female artist. But no date, nor indication of who the model was or why it was painted. The color vibe makes me guess 1960s, and a bit of internet sleuthing had me recognizing the similarities to the style of Mary Cassatt, an artist I have always admired. Cassatt was born in 1844 in Pennsylvania but spent her adult life working in Paris. She is most well known for her Impressionist artwork of women and children, especially done in pastel. Whether the artist was directly inspired by Cassatt, or unwittingly so, she created a lovely pastel of a young woman, probably in the 1960s. The gauzy paint and soft technique of the artwork makes the young woman seem to be emerging from a misty fog. Quite appropriate for my Illinois misty, foggy weather, and my personal misty, foggy month.

Bittersweet Vessels

These two vessels have very different stories, though they reside in bittersweet harmony in our family room. I found the vase on the left at a thrift shop not long ago. It is marked on the bottom “Apple Lane 6/77”. Research indicates Apple Lane Pottery was started by Bill Nagengast in 1972 in Bloomfield, MI. It seems he is still working as a professional potter! The piece is very “mod” in style and coloring, and I was attracted to its 1970s vibe. It is a sweet piece of American pottery and it looked lovely next to the “Erica” jar, with their similar colors and patterning.

The “Erica” jar story starts in the summer of 1978. My parents sent me to Spain that summer. Alone. Mind you I was 15 at the time, and was to stay with a family my mother knew. The family was lovely, and took me all over central Spain touring, shopping and enjoying wonderful meals. One daughter was a few years older than I, and we rode around on scooters with adorable teen boys, drank cervesa at the local outdoor bar, and lounged about their beautiful home and pool. I recall visiting Toledo and Madrid with the mother, as well as a well-known artist to tour his huge home studio. One evening we drove high in some mountains to an ancient monastery to eat a remarkable meal of octopus in black ink (a bit beyond the palette of an American teen raised on spaghetti and Pepperidge Farm). During one of our outings to a pottery business, I found a small jar labeled “SAL” which I brought home as a gift for a sister. The jar was a salt container, but Sal was also her nickname. The fact I made it home was itself a bit of an experience, but I’ll save you that long story – involving terrorists, bombs and much delayed flights.

Many years later, this sister went on a trip to Italy where she found an “ERICA” jar for me. Finding anything with my name on it is a slight miracle, and having it be a jar much like the one I gifted her was remarkable. Erica is the Latin term for the plant heather, and as it is not used in cooking, I was puzzled. It turns out the plant can be used for medicinal purposes, so this jar was more for pharmaceutical use. Research says heather is used to treat insomnia, depression, gout, stomachache, and skin problems! I might need to grow some of that.

My relationship with that sister ended many years ago, and the jar remains a bittersweet token of old memories. Placed as it is on a mantel in our family room, it reminds me of many things lost. But the Apple Lane vase reminds me of what we can find. Life is complicated, and it is wonderful to find love, sweetness and joy in the simple things. The memories of the past are part of our lives, both bitter and sweet. As I get older, I am trying hard to gravitate towards the sweet.

The House That Jack Built

I recently found a doll house at an estate sale, though I did not buy it. I was tempted – it was handmade, solid wood, nicely proportioned for a child, and stood 4’ tall on a base with two remarkably useful drawers. It was $65, and I debated getting it for my granddaughter. The house was really a shell – not having been “decorated” for play. But my main concern was that my son and DIL likely would have a conniption fit if I schlepped such a large project down to them. They are busy, working parents, and taking on a project of this size is not in their wheelhouse. It would need to be painted, decorated, furnished and most of all, set up somewhere. So, I passed, though obviously I’m still mulling the lost opportunity.

As a child I played with many hand-me-down toys from my much older sisters, including a large wood dollhouse. It was not decorated in any elaborate fashion, and I understood the house had belonged to my paternal aunt. I also thought my grandfather Watts S. Humphrey (1896 – 1968) had made it. Since the name WSH was passed down, the boys alternated nicknames of Jack and Johnny. My grandfather was Jack and my father was Johnny. Jack divorced my grandmother in the late 1940s to marry a British woman. My father’s sister was born to Jack’s second wife. She was older than my sisters, and numerous things were handed down from her for my sisters. I don’t know if my grandfather made the house, but I suspect not as I discovered recently another item I had inadvertently ascribed to him was not his creation.

This small doll dresser similarly was handed down to my sisters and in turn I played with it.  Upon recent inspection, I discovered on the bottom, along with many cobwebs, was the name “S. Mese”. So, not made by my grandfather Jack! That little dresser was well loved, and was in my bedroom when I left for college. At some point one of my sisters took it for her NYC apartment, and for many years I was grumpy the dresser was in her possession. How I managed to get it back from her I cannot recall, but I suspect when my daughter was born I requested it. Knowing my aunt reads these blogs, I will have to accept her request for the dresser should she want it for her grandchildren – only fair as I suspect it was hers to begin with!

When my kids were home recently, my 2-year-old granddaughter discovered my daughter’s tall, blue doll house. I had found this one at an estate sale in 1999, and it too was a large, unfinished, wooden shell. I had my baby and two sons with me when we stopped at the sale, and I managed, much like the Grinch, to shove the thing in the trunk of our station wagon.

I spent the next year decorating the house, finding specialty stores for dollhouse stuff – wallpaper, roof shingles, mini flowers, furniture. I had no idea this subculture existed! The house was gifted to my daughter on her second birthday, and was played with for many years. And now, my granddaughter has found it and is mesmerized.

On her last visit, we spent a good while playing and exploring, and only stopped when she grasped the doll sized television, climbed onto the day bed, and announced we would “watch TV”. Her Pops and I were ordered to “sit down on the sofa” next to her, and we happily sat there for 10 minutes giggling and doing absolutely nothing before her father showed up. Of course, he was required to “sit and watch TV” and thus he joined us in our vigil. Then her mom showed up, and we were ordered en masse to sit on the ground – specifically “sit on your bottoms”- so she could read us a book. The doll house was forgotten, and I later straightened it up and closed the doors. It sits awaiting its next foray into childhood.

I love the wonder a young child feels when a whole world is scaled to their small size. There is a subculture of folks who create “dollhouses” as display pieces – much like the impressive Thorne Miniatures at the Art Institute. But those pale in comparison to the ones created with love for a young child. A whole house of love and treasures, open for them to explore. No, Jack did not “make” my childhood doll house, but he is literally the root of my family tree. Without him, my family would not exist. So, in a sense, my family is the house that Jack built. The doll house, however, is a house built by Erica, with a great deal of love.

Native American Basket

My intention the other day when I ventured to the thrift store was to find cheap plastic containers to help with basement cleanup. Instead, this handmade Native American basket yelled at me from the shelf. I mean I literally stopped in my tracks and looked at it sitting high on a shelf. I did not actually NEED this basket – and, in fact, already own another very similar one (the prior one purchased at a flea market 20 years ago). That said, when I see something as powerful as a 1930s American Indian basket for $4.99 I cannot leave it behind.

This beauty was on a shelf filled with the myriad of cheap, mass produced baskets you find in any thrift store. The majority are made in China, used and discarded as they have very little value, and certainly are not heirlooms. This one, however, has a story connected to it. I am not a Native American history expert by any means, but I appreciate hand work and the skills needed to make something to sustain life. In this case, by a Ho-Chunk woman living in Wisconsin in the 1930s. Like all indigenous tribes in the United States, the history of The Ho-Chunk Nation (formerly known as Wisconsin Winnebago Tribe) is heartbreaking, but there are currently around 7700 members residing throughout Wisconsin.

The Ho-Chunk basket I found is a “market basket” and was made c.1930. It is large – measuring 17” across and 10” tall, not including the handle. It was hand woven with splints from Black Ash trees. Some of the material was dyed green and red, but the colors faded significantly. (The green and red can be seen in areas where an unexposed under piece is poking through the weave). The baskets typically were woven by the tribal women, both for use in their homes as well as for sale.

The process of creating these baskets was arduous in the extreme. First, an ash tree was located, then cut, hauled and harvested. The wood was processed for the basket making by debarking the log, splitting and pounding the tree rings into strips (splints), and scraping and smoothing the splints to make them thin and pliable (1). Then came the processes of yarning, twisting, twining, braiding, soaking, gauging and coloring the materials. The colors were created with natural items, not boxed dye we use these days. That meant collecting minerals, berries and other fruits, flowers, seeds, roots, and grasses. Moss, algae, and juniper berries yielded green colors. Walnut shell and birch bark created browns. Purple hues were made from blueberries, raspberries, blackberries, and rotten maple wood. Sumac berries, dogwood bark and beets produced reds. Yellow coloring was manufactured from onion skins, goldenrod stems and flowers, birch leaves, and sagebrush (2).

So, if  you are not exhausted yet from reading that process, keep in mind the weaver was not finished. After making the baskets, she would either go door to door or set up a roadside stand to sell them to locals and tourists. In addition, a La Crosse Tribune article notes that in the 1930s, the tribal women would sell their products in La Crosse in front of Doerflinger’s Department Store (which closed in 1984) (1). Between 1930 and 1940, increasing numbers of Ho-Chunk women made baskets as a means to supplement their household incomes. By the 1940s this was replaced with other jobs such as cleaning houses or factor work, as younger generations did not want to do the backbreaking work involved in weaving a basket. (3)

The black ash is a tree native to Wisconsin. Unfortunately, the Emerald Ash Bore (EAB) has decimated the native ash populations in the US, and with it, destroyed the raw materials needed to make these baskets. There are a few artists trying to preserve and teach the skill of weaving these baskets, and there is a concerted effort to locate trees that withstand the EAB, or find other options. According to one basket artist, Kelly Church, the black ash is important to their tribe’s creation story – it provides medicines, housing, food. And those trees, and thus this artistry, are at risk of being lost. As a contemporary weaver from Maine, Jennifer Neptune so succinctly put it: “We have an obligation to that tree to do everything in our power to help it survive – for itself, our culture and our baskets…Black ash is a metaphor for being Native…It is Indigenous. It is how we survived: being flexible, without breaking” (4)

While it hurts my heart that someone would get rid of this treasure, I am grateful that same person thought to contribute it to charity. This allowed their “trash” to become my treasure, and helped fund a charitable group. We are all better off when this economy of “reuse, reduce, recycle” is successful. There is way too much STUFF out there, so to avoid “new” and find treasures is a source of great joy to me. In this case, a truly “made in America” item was rescued – something made with a great deal of effort by an indigenous person living in our country. Now to decide what to do with these baskets that I am basket-sitting!

1.    From article in La Crosse Tribune on November 14, 2020

2.    www.wisconsinhistory.org/Records/Article/CS2626

3.    Adriana Greci Green, curator of Indigenous Art of the Americas as The Fralin Museum of Art, UVA

4.    https://www.americanindianmagazine.org/story/black-ash-basketry

Jean’s Magic Circle

This photo of my grumpy, little girl modeling my friend’s mother’s creation is an heirloom of a different sort. It is a framed page from a book on hats (100 Hats To Knit and Crochet by Jean Leinhauser and Rita Weiss, 2005). While the hat she wears is knit, I like the imagery of a “magic circle”, used when starting a crochet project. The stitches are cast on in a loop, and from there the hat grows as stitches are added. This story all started with one creative woman in 1972, ending with my daughter’s photograph years later. It is a yarn of kismet, knit together through connections of people, businesses, friendships and houses over 30 years. And so, we cast on: 

In 2005 I took my daughter to California to visit my dear college friend and her baby daughter. We all stayed with her parents, and one day her mother, Rita, took us to a photography studio. Rita needed models for a needle arts book she was producing about hats. Our daughters spent hours being photographed wearing many hats, and as the day wore on, my daughter became less cooperative. This photo was included in the book, and I adore the fact the book was published with her grumpy face glaring out among all the smiling ones.

That evening, I mentioned a needle arts company had resided in my property in Illinois during the 1970s, though I did not know many details. Rita was curious as she recalled her dear friend and partner, Jean, had worked in the Chicago area. She called Jean, and asked after the history of her prior business. It turns out, Jean was working in Chicago in the early 1970s, starting a needlework publishing company, Leisure Arts, with Ron Klein. As the business needed more room, she found a large property for rent in Libertyville with two houses, 7 fireplaces and multiple barns. While she couldn’t recall the street, the description made it clear it was our current home, 30 years earlier! I met with Jean, and heard wonderful stories of her experience on our property in the 1970s. She said Ron and his wife and daughter moved into the main house, and his brother lived in the cottage, handling all the shipping out of the large barn. She commuted to Libertyville each day, working in Ron’s office which is now my sewing room! Jean was bought out of the business, and moved to New York in the mid 1970s, eventually creating a new needle arts publishing company, American School of Needlework, with my friend’s mother, Rita.

Astonishingly enough, in 2019 our doorbell rang one day, and Libby Klein Rapier introduced herself. She was visiting Libertyville, and was curious to see her childhood home. I invited her in, and she was thrilled to see the place. She lived at the house from 1972 to 1980, and remembered Jean from that time. She shared with me numerous photos, including one from 1976 of her posing in front of the distinctive fireplace in our house. She sent me copies of artwork by her mother and photos of the property taken before they moved away.

I am continually amazed at the creativity of life to build circles of connections. How was I to know that a special friendship, started in 1982 in college, was the middle of this story? The property my husband and I purchased in Illinois in 1999 was yet another round added to the tale. And then, with our daughters, my close friend and I drew all those stitches together in a silly hat in California in 2005. Our friendship and her mother Rita’s  friendship with Jean – both treasured connections – united us in a circle of yarn.

Silver Linings

Bearing The Weight by Paulette Colo, 2020 (oil on canas)

I think of this artwork as my “pandemic painting”. It is appropriate for today as after three years of folks getting Covid-19, I finally got the darn thing. Not a bad case by any means, and took me a bit to realize I should test, but I had oddly stayed uninfected while most everyone I knew got it, some multiple times. Thankfully being fully vaccinated means my case is mild and I can now stay home and write and sew without guilt. Which is certainly a silver lining…much like this painting is to me.

This is one of few artworks I have purchased directly from the artist. This piece was on display at an art show in Woodstock, IL in June, 2020. At that time, the complexity of Covid-19 was beginning to hit, and going to this show, masked, was likely the last time I ventured out with friends to attend something. Lock down hit soon thereafter.

I was immediately attracted to this painting, and analyzing why made me realize how much I gravitate to the color blue in my decorating. Blue is a “cold” color (as compared to a “warm” one such as yellow), and it creates a sense of calm. It also represents a state of  melancholy. The dictionary speculates the term may be related to the skin being blue with cold, or lack of oxygen, as though being depressed depletes your body of needed air. Personally, my mother always had a blue and white kitchen, and I too have gravitated to blue and white kitchens. Somehow the god-awful blue paisley wallpaper in our kitchen and blue and white bicentennial pineapple wall paper adorning my room in the 1970s did not turn me off the color.

The composition of Bearing the Weight is timeless. Nothing really places it in a specific time, or location, and the model’s skin tone is ambiguous. The artist, Paulette, told me the woman was an art class model, and Paulette sketched her while she was taking a break from posing, not during the formal class session. The form is triangle in shape, and art history sees that blue draping as a classic “Madonna” color, often depicting the Virgin Mary wearing it, also frequently in a triangle form. The senses of sorrow and exhaustion the artist captures are striking, especially knowing we were all struggling through Covid-19 as well as Black Lives Matter concerns at that time. When my husband and I picked the painting up, there was a “Back the Blue” rally heading into the town to support police, in contrast to the Black Lives Matter events taking place. The model seems to carry the weight of those conflicts, and a sense of sorrow at the lack of civility in our society.

The treatment of the lower third of the painting is brilliant. The blue and red paint running down the white canvas hints at the Red, White and Blue of our country’s flag, with the paint seeming to bleed. It is up to the viewer to decide what the running paint means. I feel hopeful: while the paint is running, it has to go somewhere. It will end in a puddle off the canvas where it all runs together. Because, realistically, we are all in this together. Covid-19 is but one struggle. Depression, political anger, and social unrest also loom large. But as human beings we need to decide if we will side with anger and hostility or turn to our silver linings: hope, peace and kindness. I vote for silver linings.

Hemming My History

I picked up this statue at a thrift store, and she made me think of my mother and all her sewing projects. While the statue is signed, the signature is a mystery. The details on the statue are quirky – her hair, her top, her wide hips and the mystery item in her right hand (any ideas?!). The colors are charming: the spaghetti hair is a riot of pink, purple, yellow. She is 5” tall but she is heavy – 1.5 pounds. I sense she was made in South America although I have no evidence of this. Her clothing seems modeled on old Spanish culture. She may or may not be an immigrant to this country, but she recalls my German sewing grandmothers and I adore her charm.

My great grandmother was Katherine Becker (1854-1932) who arrived in Canada from Trier, Germany around 1875. The family story is she was an orphan and convinced a family to present her as their servant so she could immigrate. The tale also says she arrived with a sewing machine, though I would love to know if this is accurate. A sewing machine in 1875 would have cost roughly $3500 in today’s dollars so I am skeptical. While the back story is unknown, I do wonder if possibly her parents died of a smallpox plague that ravaged Germany in the 1870s and she was left an orphan. I am going to take that story and suggest her mother was a seamstress - or father a tailor - and thus she came into possession of a sewing machine. So, voila! She immigrated to the United States through Canada, and married another German immigrant in Chicago, Peter Hermes (1854-1931). They had 6 children (4 more died as infants) and my grandmother Frieda was the youngest (1898 -1961). Frieda’s full name was Frederica and I was named after her.

Frieda was a talented seamstress and milliner, and decorated hats for clients in Chicago. My mother would deliver these hats by bicycle in the 1930s. In addition, my mom always said her mother had “champagne taste and a beer sized pocket book” which seems to be genetically inheritable! My grandmother would take her two daughters to Marshall Fields to purchase expensive dresses. Frieda would use those dresses as a pattern, and recreate the dresses herself, and then return the purchased dresses. My mother in turn sewed her own clothes all through her life, even when she had the financial means to purchase items. Sewing became a creative exercise for her, and she took me with her while searching for wonderful fabrics throughout my childhood.

One of the difficulties when home sewing is making your hem even. While you might think you could simply measure, turn under and sew, you would be neglecting the effect having curves would cause on the draping of the clothing over your body. Picture holding a piece of fabric up straight. Now, hold it up straight but put a ball in the way – the fabric would ride up much like the back side of your dress due to your curves. Thus a “hem marker” was used. The wearer turns while the pinner sits on the floor, using the adjustable measuring stick, determining the final length and pinning all around the skirt. My mother had me pinning her skirt hems throughout my life.

Ok, a sewing lesson no one really cares about, but the point is my mother was a talented seamstress and taught me from a very young age how to do these things. She made my high school graduation outfit (I still have it), my wedding dress (ditto) and many other items both for me and my children. Few people (including me) make their clothing anymore and the need for these sewing tools is fading. I recently discarded the hemming stick I had for years when I realized I literally never used it.

While the charming statue cannot tell us who made her or even where, I love the idea she too was an immigrant to this country, much like my great grandparents. And darn is her hem nice and straight!

Harleys In Heaven

The colloquial expression “I’ll know it when I see it” is appropriate when discussing heirloom quilts. There is no defined “category” for a quilt to be considered an heirloom, as it is very subjective and is tied to the memories the quilt captures. An heirloom quilt does not need to be made with “special” fabrics or laces. Yes, there are many wonderful - and expensive – fabrics available to produce sophisticated and special quilts. But it is also possible to make a quilt with fleece lined flannel shirts and denim button downs. This Harley Quilt is a case in point.

Losing a loved one is difficult, but when it is unexpected it is all the worse. My daughter began dating a young man (I’ll refer to him as JD) in 2019. Early in their relationship, JD’s father died quite suddenly (I’ll refer to the father as “Jay”). Jay was not married and JD was his only child. It was a difficult time, as JD dealt with the myriad of legal, financial and emotional consequences of Jay’s tragic death. Once a few months had passed, my daughter asked if I could make JD a quilt with Jay’s flannel shirts.

Of course I agreed, and anticipated a pile of comfortably worn flannel button-down shirts. My daughter arrive home with two large, black garbage bags filled with clothing. Taken aback, I emptied them all, and discovered Jay’s wardrobe of choice was a “shaket”. Who knew – not me – there is such a thing as faux shearling lined shirts, commonly known as “shakets””?! Realistically there were 10 or so, but as Jay was a large man and these things are bulky, they filled up the bags. There were also a few denim shirts, some plain, but one bearing a Harley Davidson image on the back.

I spent a few moments taking deep breaths, and decided to remove the flannel from the faux shearling, getting some decent fabric to utilize for constructing a quilt. The next step was to determine a design. I placed the Harley artwork in the center and decided to build out from there. Using the flannels and denim, I made two differing blocks, some larger pieces of flannel and some with narrow strips. This allowed me to use most of the flannel from the shirts as well as the denim, and to applique a few charming labels from the clothing. I won’t bore you with all the technical issues involved, but I was pleased the quilt came out large enough to snuggle under and was a comfort to his son.

A few months after I completed the quilt, the city of Kenosha was rocked with unrest after the shooting of Jacob Blake in August, 2020. My daughter and JD were living quite close to the epicenter of the riots, and she was attending university remotely from their apartment due to the Covid-19 lock downs. Concerned for her safety, as she was alone during the days, they chose to come stay with us briefly. My daughter told me afterwards that the only item JD packed to bring down with him that day was the Harley quilt. To know it meant so much to him that it was all he grabbed in his rush speaks to the power of these tokens of love. I was exceedingly touched. Heirloom indeed.