Chalkballerina: Weddings and Writings; Whimsy and Whining.

Barcelona (and Lost)

In just a little over a week I will be in Barcelona, Spain.  I am SO EXCITED - in fact I can hardly contain myself.  I'm like a very small dog... unable to stop quivering and panting and humping everything in sight.  I speak in metaphor of course.  OR DO I? 
Trying to calm down is like trying to watch only ONE episode of Lost.  (Side note: Clinton and I are trying to catch up with all you Lost fan people... we just finished the third dvd of Season 2... synopsis so far? Jack is an idiot, Sawyer makes me sin, Kate needs to get with Sawyer because I want to see them kiss again and because I am full of sin, Sun and Jin make me weep and want to sing a song about love, John Locke reminds me of Thomas Schroeder (childhood friend) and is somehow always comforting even if he's doing something super creepy, Hurley represents the voice of the tv audience, saying things like "Who thought Rose's husband was white?", Charlie is instant comic relief, Claire is gorgeous and Michael has a very small ego and splits in almost every single scene and is driving me crazy. End of side note.)  Lately if you surprise me I scream in Spanish; it's awesome (back to Barcelona, y'all).   Every time I get a whiff of some of the shit that always seems to be crammed into the crevices of life's shoes, I think about Barcelona, and suddenly the shit is dried and odorless, easily stomped away.  Sweet, dried shit.

Has anyone been to Barcelona?  I know virtually nothing about it.  I would love suggestions as to where to go, what to see, favorite cafe's or museums or streets... things you've heard about it... the "vibe."   
Go on... TELL ME. 

And DO NOT tell me anything about the current season of Lost.  Or last season.  But if you want to talk about Sawyer and the uncanny archetype of hotness he embodies, by all means I welcome your perspective. 

OH for a man to call me Sassafras and Puddin' and Freckles.  I long to be a noun.  OH GOD LET ME BE A NOUN.  A Southern noun. 
Sawyer gets to me (for those of you who are in fact, dead).  Yes I know I am a bit behind the times, but shut up, let me be in love.  He gets me with the Tristan-in-Legends-of-the-Fall factor.  You know what I'm talking about.
So, to add to my ongoing list.  In heaven I will in fact be a Southern noun.

   

Story by magnet.

My friend Karen and I often laugh about our many ventures into the alluring, tumultuous realm of creativity.  A few years ago we were browsing around in Anthropologie (my all-time favorite store of the world) and began to lose touch with reality. 

"OHH wow... look at this tank top.. look at the beautiful ribbon interwoven into the fabric... how much is it?... it's 108$... wait a second, isn't this just cotton, ribbon and thread - why, we can MAKE this tank top golly darn it!" 

Perhaps it was my homeschooled heritage influencing my ability to reason in the realm of all things handmade, but I really believed we could succeed in our endeavor.  There was simply no doubt. 

And so our excitement surged to the sky as we drove frantically to Target to buy cheap tank tops and then to Joanne's to buy ribbon and thread and needles... and then (insert tragic music here), we entered into a drawn-out bout of severe disappointment.  It took us months to admit that we indeed could not make tank tops like Anthropologie, but had instead created what ended up looking like a horrific accident between cheap clothes, glue, craft-supplies and insomnia. 

We could laugh about it several months after we faced out tragedy, but no sooner... the pain was too real.

Now this story is not only hilarious to us, but also serves as a life-long justification to shop at Anthropologie.

Recently, however, Karen and I have undergone a NEW episode of creativity, and this time we ended up with results that we are actually quite thoroughly in love with.  The following photos are of our new creations: storied magnets.   They are made of glass and serve as a tiny reflector of whatever text/picture we adhere to the bottom of the glass.  We then add a sturdy magnet, and voila - personalized, artistic magnets at your service.   One thing we love about the magnets is that the glass is different on each one - all have tiny imperfections - tiny cracks or crevices; some have strange areas that reflect differently than the rest - these imperfections make each magnet different and ultimately a surprise.   

Story by magnets really feels similar to taking photographs: though I frame what I want in the picture and imagine what the result will be, I ultimately have no control as to what the photograph will end up meaning, or the "imperfections" (sunlight, freckles, emotion) that often invade only to create a more lovely result.   

The themes we have going so far consist of vintage photographs, vintage postcards, vintage (are you seeing a theme?) children's book illustrations, vintage plays (for instance, Little Women) and vintage sheet music. 
Each artifact we use to create the magnet is original - we don't make any copies of any of our texts - so each magnet is absolutely unique. 

We are already seeing a fantastic demand for these unique, personalized, homemade magnets, and are taking orders for special occasions, themes, lyrics, bands, places on the map, etc.  They are $108 dollars each.  Just kidding.  They are actually 4$ each or 6 for $20.  When a set is purchased (of 6) the magnets come in a beautiful bag.   If you are interested in a personalized purchase, e-mail me: chalkballerina@gmail.com 

Storied Magnets will be available for purchase on etsy.com in a few days.   

I made Clinton a set of magnets with a "Radiohead" theme.  Radiohead has a very special place in our marriage.  We will name our first child Thom and our second one Yorke, and our third one Radiohead... just in case anyone missed the hint.  His set consisted of 6 magnets, each dedicated to some aspect of the band (faces of the band members, lyrics from cd cover, etc).   Click here to see more pictures. 

drunk fiddlin'

The tips of my fingers are so sore that pressing the keys of this keyboard is a bit like finishing off a hamburger after biting the hell out of your tongue on the first bite.  Yesterday I played my violin for over three hours inside my little condo.  That's as long as Lord of the Rings.  Just in case you needed a semi-current cultural reference.  I'm sure the neighbors were thrilled.  If they ever inquire as to my playing I will say, "A violin? No... must have just been one of my Itzhak cds."  And then I will have effectively created a moment of deceit that brings me pleasure only because it shields me from shame and instead places it unknowingly on the other.  Awesome. 
So my fingers are as tired as a chomped, swollen tongue.  Before yesterday it had been over a year since I touched my violin.  Holding the instrument beneath my chin and and feeling the muscle memory rush back into my fingers was like eating a tender, juicy steak after fasting for weeks; I could feel the nutrients rush back into my bloodstream. 

There is something so magical about making music.  It is one of the joys in my life that doesn't ever satisfy me - it just builds and builds and becomes something I need and want more rather than less.  The more I make music the more I want to make music.  Like the perfect melody

that increases in worth as it increases in familiarity - only becoming more dear, like an old, old friend.  It's as if I'm cultivating a hunger rather than quelling it.   Music moves me down to my bones if I let it.  Like a story or a husband or a friend or a family.  There is no expiration date.  I think that's also why I didn't play for over a year.  I had effectively, though temporarily, dulled the desire.  In lieu of the lack of expiration date I had simply stopped stocking the fridge.  Oh bother.  If only Christopher Robin was here.  He always knew what to do.  Calm and quietly contained.  Gently satisfied.  Maybe Christopher Robin can be my new role model.  Imagine: Christopher Robin on Depression; Christopher Robin on Sexual Harassment.  It would be amazing. 

I feel like I bit the hell out of my tongue in a thousand ways lately.  I'm angry at those who abuse power by pretending they cannot and did not see.  I'm angry at the devastation this refusal has left in it's path.  I'm so deeply sad as I see the face of this devastation.  And like you react to a swollen place on your tongue that gets in the way of trying to eat anything else - I'm annoyed.  Reminiscent of an evil, rotten cherry filled with shit on top, I also miss my family.  The more I miss them the more it grows.  It just builds and builds until I either feel like a big, walking open wound or decide to throw on the morphine.  To suffer or to numb - I hate that this is the dilemma life so often presents.   It's like I'm sitting in a fabulous restaurant with rave reviews and all the menu says is: Punch in the Face or Horrific Depression.  Shoot.  I just wanted a freakin' Caesar salad.   

So I'm going to try to stay awake.  Alert.  Pissed off.  Sad.  Happily drunk as a clam with freaky swollen fingers as I play my fiddle for three hours without ceasing.  I want to numb when necessary (watch some tv, stalk on some facebook, take some baths, eat some chocolate) but I don't want to disappear.  Walk the line: I'll keep looking for cheap tickets to Beaumont, Texas every few days.  I'll keep taking random pictures of myself to let my family see my face and therefore imagine I am closing a tiny stretch of the 2,486 miles between us.
  I'll keep letting movies make me sob and stories make me cringe and frustration make me violent.  I'll keep letting my husband's touch bring me home and my friend's face bring me hope and my brother's eyebrow ring bring me delight.  Awake.  Because I don't want to live as a vague allusion to grace or a watered-down version of me.  Grace is not nice.  Grace has teeth.  And, as I am beginning to suspect, grace has eyes.   
Life is lived at a cost.  Always.  Just ask my fingertips.    

Angela

Meet Angela.  Angela Muhlnickel is one of my favorite Seattle artists.  Her jewelry continues to be symbolic of who I long to become as a woman, and has also become an icon for the spirit behind my photography business.  During the photography shoot Angela commented on her love for crows as we watched a few of them riffle through some trash.  When I asked her what the basis of the love could possibly be, she replied, "They are so mischievous and playful.  They love to cause problems and be assholes.  The other day when I was looking at one it "meowed" and rang like a phone - it must have been raised as a pet!"  I love that Angela named the crow "the asshole bird", and gave this as part of her reason for loving them. 
I commission Angela each year to create a swallow necklace (maybe someday it will change to a crow!) for every bride I photograph.  Each year the swallow is a different color.  See more of Angela's work here.