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Oils at the Mallets Creek Branch of the AAPL

My local library is more than a place where I go to get my fix of books, music, and movies.  I also get my dose of original artwork there, thanks to the most interesting exhibits that come and go. 

This was a recent exhibit by Joan Newberry, a collection of oils titled, “Portraits of the Things I Can’t Describe.”

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Home: Also Where The Heart Is

This is my latest acquisition:  a simple wooden plaque that bears a definition of the word ‘home’.  It is made by a small company in Colorado, USA.  The simplicity of the concept appealed to me, and so I bought it, and hung it up against this lovely hard wooden panel, and voila, it owns the wall that it hangs on in my living room! 

The one other definition that Merriam-Webster or Oxford possibly failed to note for this word is one that I shall happily supply to you:  Home is also the place where the heart is!  Is that beautiful, or is that beautiful?  I thought so!

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A Mask From Rome, Italy: Another One For My Collection

My parents were in Rome, Italy this summer, and my mother brought me back a lovely ceramic mask to add to my mask-collection.  Unfortunately, this lovely mask suffered a small incident enroute the Atlantic, but thanks to some superglue, we’ve got her back looking as good as new!  See for yourself!

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My Blue Pottery Collection: One Of A Kind

What better place than here to showcase my lovely blue pottery?  In case you haven’t heard me harp about it, or haven’t seen it in person, here are some pictures I took earlier this year.  Enjoy!

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Art, Humor, and Wisdom from Mary Engelbreit: America's Favorite Graphic Artist

I discovered Mary Engelbriet in the mid-nineties thanks to the most brightly-colored line of greeting cards I came across one day.  Soon, I began to see more than greeting cards– there were boxes and bookmarks and all kinds of small memorabilia that carried the trademark little girl dispensing wisdom and humor in unusual ways and on unexpected things– like this set of magnets that I found some years back.

Check them out– each one of them has something truly funny and profound!  All five serve the dual purpose of bringing a smile to everyone who sees them on my kitchen bulletin board (which is magnetic) and also serve to prop up important pieces of paper, notes, bills, and what-have-yous on the board.  That’s right:  I’m In Charge Here!

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‪The Aeon Project‬‏: Imagine The Possibilities

 

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Sewing, in Brooklyn (A Tribute To My Mother)

This might be getting fashionable only of late in places like Brooklyn, NY, but for me, I have seen my mother sew everything from a pillowcase to a dress to a salwar-kameez for me, sometimes, one every ten days or so– just because she could– so inventive, imaginative, and creative was she!

With her Singer sewing machine, my mother was a fearless seamstress, and I was the prime beneficiary of her talents! Thank you, Mom!  Article follows…

Floppy felt hats with broad rims gather like old friends on an antique green rack, greeting visitors at the door. Simple striped yellow, white and gray curtains adorn the front windows.

In the middle room, linen and raw-silk blankets sit with seersucker pillowcases atop cotton sheets. A white linen pinafore dress with a ruffled chiffon hem hangs in the sparse closet next to a flamenco flannel skirt and dozens of other colorful creations. T-shirts, tank tops and lingerie are folded into neat squares on small shelves, and wooden hooks hold just-worn items.

A wicker basket on the floor fills with laundry that never felt so satisfying.

Sarah Kate Beaumont sewed all of these items one by one over the past three years in what began as an experiment of self-reliance and artistic whimsy and has now blossomed into a way of life.

That life may hark back to pioneer days, but Ms. Beaumont is not homesteading alone.

Brooklyn, fiercely proud of its independence from Manhattan, is an expanding frontier for the Do It Yourself movement — resourceful residents are baking bread, raising chickens for eggs, keeping bees for honey or simply renovating brownstones themselves. Ms. Beaumont, a shy woman in her early 40s with auburn curls, settles as comfortably into that ethos as she does into her flowing dresses.

“I never intended to do it this long,” she said softly on a recent afternoon. “I think it speaks to how good it feels. Self-reliance is really empowering.”

Ms. Beaumont began sewing to live in the summer of 2008, when after eight years of teaching art in the city’s public and private schools, she decided to become a full-time artist. Her dream was to share her craft by teaching adult sewing classes. Because the timing coincided with the financial collapse, she altered the dream with common sense.

“I decided,” she said, “that I would make anything I needed.”

She started with the lingerie. A flowing skirt led to a pair of pajamas. Aprons, stuffed animals, raincoats, sheets, terry cloth towels and curtains followed. She makes everything she wears save the odd pair of jeans, socks and shoes.

Ms. Beaumont likes to call her project “Slow Clothes,” after the Slow Food movement promoting the homegrown.

Ms. Beaumont recycles material from old items or buys fabric relatively inexpensively in Manhattan in the garment district. It usually takes her two to three weeks to finish a dress, a few hours for underwear.

Two years ago, she decided to put a label on her items, “verysweetlife,” with the inscription, “Handmade in Brooklyn.” She has yet to market that label, though she says she is ready to start. There is one nagging issue: pricing.

“How do you take something that you’ve spent a tremendous amount of time and effort on and put a price on it?” she said. “Each piece is unique. That’s one thing about making everything you wear — nobody will ever be wearing what you are wearing.”

In the meantime, Ms. Beaumont supports herself with sewing classes, for which she charges $65 to $500, depending on the length of the course, and offers private lessons as well.

Tamara Mose Brown, an assistant professor of sociology at Brooklyn College, who lives in Kensington, says Ms. Beaumont exemplifies the economic growth occurring in Brooklyn, driven by small businesses, restaurants and clothing shops. “Brooklynites are feeling that they want to have this identity away from Manhattan and the air of consumerism,” Professor Brown said. “There’s this element of self-preservation and economic sustainability.”

In her intimate second-floor sewing studio in Boerum Hill, outfitted with five Kenmore sewing machines and filled with rulers, patterns and dress forms, Ms. Beaumont teaches adults — lawyers, writers, grandmothers and others — fractions, geometry and remedial cutting in order to master patternmaking.

“It is not a sign of intelligence how hard it is to cut or measure,” she assured three students working on a pillow pattern last month in her studio.

Harriet Clemons, 54, of Crown Heights, was taking the three-week course so she could make clothes for her grandchildren. Kate Clifford, 28, works at a SoHo knitting shop and wanted to expand her repertoire. One of her roommates in Kensington sells homemade vegan muffins.

Elizabeth Cline, 30, of Bedford-Stuyvesant, is writing a book about budget fashion and the declining price of clothing, and hoped to supplement her own wardrobe.

“It’s encouraging that you can actually make things that are better or at least the level of what stores are selling,” Ms. Cline said.

Ms. Beaumont never followed the crowd, growing up in Pittsburgh embroidering, and enjoying the meals made by her mother, a chef and a baker. She majored in English literature at Bryn Mawr College, where she rode a unicycle in leggings and a skirt.

Every day she kisses her sleek white high-tech Bernina sewing machine, next to which she has meticulously organized bobbins by color, and spools of thread. Although hers is an intense, solitary passion, it is also meditative, in sync with much of the D.I.Y. culture.

“It’s hands on, getting back to the basics,” Ms. Brown said, “and it makes people feel that they are not falling victim to the machine.”

Unless, of course, it’s a white Kenmore.

“These are adults who hold their pillows and beam, they are so proud of themselves,” Ms. Beaumont said with a twinkle. “That’s how I feel a lot of the time. It’s not ego-driven pride, but I look in the mirror and say, ‘I can do this.’ ”

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Look Into The Mirror: What You See Might Surprise You!

This is a post titled ‘Instant Art’ that was first published on Monday, June 23, 2008 in my private blog.  I reproduce it here today to add to the recent posts on mirrors that I have published in this Art section of my public blog.  It may very well be that I will still do individual posts on each of these mirrors, but until such time, here’s something for the eyes and the mind.

Sylvia Plath’s Mirror is the well-known poem that is often cited in literary circles for being the quintessential poem on mirrors, but I myself have never been quite taken with the dark and dismal imagery of her lines, especially those from the second verse.  But then, given Plath’s general state of mind, and all other things considered, I suppose this was very much in character…  


 

To me, personally, mirrors are simply works of art:  not just because of the various frames that they come in– that are certainly works of art in and of themselves– but more so because of what they usually reflect– faces.  It is an almost powerful feeling of being able to create art instantaneously simply by virtue of holding a mirror up to your face, or viewing the face of another inside a mirror!  Nothing vain about it; just a matter-of-fact wonder in seeing one’s reflection and knowing that there is no other way to see so clearly one’s own face were it not for this piece of glass (a body of water might offer the same, only not-so-clearly).


 

So:  here are some of the mirrors that I call my own.  Actually, I didn’t consciously go about collecting them; it just so happens that they’ve come to me one way or another, and most, if not all have some meaning to me.  Look inside any one of them, and voila! a work of art is there for your viewing pleasure.  Small note on each of them in the order that they appear:

 

  • The silver and turquoise lacquer one was a gift from my dear cousin, Shorrosh.  It is actually a photo-frame, but I chose to have a mirror put into it.  🙂 It found a nice spot for itself in the drawing room.
  • The wooden one with the ivory-like inlay was a gift from Meenu, one of the kids from our Children’s Home; it is made in Saharanpur, known for its world-famous woodwork. So special and lovely is it that it found its way into my kitchen.
  • The shapely wooden one in which I appear holding my camera is more than a mirror; it is a holder of all the keys that come in and out of the house; a $5 treasure from Treasure Mart– it certainly owns the piece of wall that it hangs on right inside the front doorway.
  • The one on my dresser is not too clear, but it is one that is carved and painted in muted colors of blue and brick.  It says it is made in Thailand on the back, but I’ll admit I found it on sale at the Pier One store!
  • The one with the beaten copper and handmade tiles is from Albuquerque, New Mexico that I picked up in a charming little shop in the old-town district while there last Fall. Absolutely exquisite, this one also found its way into the drawing room.
     
All of them beautiful in style and size, and the special meaning they bear of either being a gift or of having been discovered.  And above all, of course, for the unique work of art each of them offers when one looks into any of them!

 And since I invoked Plath’s poem to begin with, here it is in its entirety.  Pity that Plath apparently was revolted with the notion and appearance of a face marked with time.  I, on the contrary, would wish to seek out the pulchritude and grandeur of a face weathered with time and tide– be it my own or that of another.  After all, wouldn’t you want the mirror to tell you the truth– or would you rather be like the evil Queen in Snow White?   (And this is purely a sidebar:  When confronted with the Truth, I would recommend that it be accepted and embraced, and not made out to be a Liar.)


I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.

Whatever I see I swallow immediately

Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.

I am not cruel, only truthful —

The eye of a little god, four-cornered.

Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.

It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long

I think it is part of my heart. But it flickers.

Faces and darkness separate us over and over.


Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,

Searching my reaches for what she really is.

Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.

I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.

She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.

I am important to her. She comes and goes.

Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.

In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman

Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.

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