Oh, how I love earrings. They've always been my favourite accessory. It's something about the nearness to the jaw, the way it becomes almost part of the face. I made this pair just before Christmas, with beads, buttons and circles cut from leather. I'm beginning to love making little things by hand, whether they be cardboard cutouts, beaded accessories or people made from clay. There is something intimate, almost secret, about the act of making something with my hands. With each day, each act of making, I feel more myself, a presence more real within my body. Even when it is difficult, there is always this, and it is enough.
Today I randomly ended up buying a couple of pounds of clay. I didn't leave home with the intention of getting clay, but it happened along the way, somehow. I've never really dabbled much in clay, save for one misshapen mermaid sculpture in secondary school. I sat in the yard and whacked it about for awhile. It was quite a challenge to keep the dogs from eating it.
So from start to finish, The Clay Lady took about six hours. The act of forcing the shape into being, then honing the finer details, felt so unexpectedly good and satisfying. I took some pics with my phone along the way, because I found the process quite interesting. Glad I did!!
Painting the clay lady red.
And this is the Clay Lady, completed. There are wire hearts blooming from her belly. One of these days I will take her out into the garden and snap some proper pics of her.
You know, I've come to think of myself as both a dear, familiar friend and a slightly unsettling stranger. By the time I was halfway into the collection of poetry I now tentatively consider complete, there was this overwhelming sense of being at sea. I felt reduced to a pair of wide eyes and raw senses. There were these levels of internal dialogue happening, to the point where it was difficult to speak or to interact with others. I am beginning to think I will never quite get beyond this feeling of being unable to speak aloud. But it's okay. I'd always thought that understanding myself would come in a concrete and discernible way, but instead, it has come slowly, strangely, and without words or explanation. I think this shows in the things I make as well. Half-past twenty five, I am realizing how much of myself is bound up in my art and poetry, and I am so grateful for the ability to speak without saying.
Working on these two, now. They're almost done... scans to come soon.