In an earlier post, I wrote about having lost the desire to nest in the rental I which am currently living. I keep it livable but I haven't wanted to decorate or improve it. Chalk it up to having been deracinated almost 3 years ago...
But, it is never too late. I have been feeling flickers of desire for things- creature comforts, the self-expression of decorating, the semiotics of a home. I have been experiencing visions, day-dreams, reveries of a home for me. I can see it in my heart's and mind's eye- the colors, materials and surfaces in my kitchen-to-be; the fabrics and textures and lighting of my future bedroom. I can picture myself painting the walls- a beautiful wax-bean yellow/green, installing the cork tiles on the floors, hanging the old light fixture rescued from dust and grime and restored without losing its begruntled charm. I can see my furniture placed just so along with pieces added as they come. I can see the home evolving in its style that I have come to call "Mahoning," meaning to me: rust-belt/rural. Midwest Wabi-Sabi.
Have I suddenly come into the money to accomplish this vision- no, not by a long-shot. But to me this awakening of desire is a miracle. I have started collecting information on materials, processes, making sketches. I will start keeping them in a folder and I will create an icon for this vision and hang it on my vision-tree in the place of the little book icon I had made to represent my vision of my Word Project book- a vision that has miraculously been accomplished.
It must be an intimation of Spring...
When I was a child- back when the arrival of the Sunday edition of the Youngstown Vindicator was a big deal- the first part of that thick bundle (you can tell how long ago that was- newspapers were thick bundles) that I went to was the funny pages. The first part of the funny pages I went to was the "Teeny-Weenies." I have written about them before but to recap- the TW's were a race of minuscule people who lived in our world but in the corners and hidden beneath violet leaves. Each week was the story of some TW travail or holiday depicted in a single, large, beautifully-drawn panel. One week the TW's may be doing battle with towering rats who threatened their grain stores, another week it would be a TW outing on boats made from milkweed husks. The TWs were from all races and cultures.
Also each week there would be a single TW that I could cut out of the paper, paste onto a piece of shirt cardboard and trim. The art came with the flanges that could be bent back so the figure could stand on its own. I had a collection of them that I could use to enact my own TW scenarios.
That collection was long ago discarded but I have been drawing again on that inspiration for a series of small pieces. I have conflated them with my "heart-box" motif and my love of the natural world. I use the same basic template, which is a constraint that I enjoy working within.
Where they greatly differ, however, is in their basic demeanor. The original Teeny-Weenies were, as appropriate to the times, sort of can-do, go-getting, optimistic types- no obstacle could stand in their way for long, soon to be overcome with the united efforts of the population. My Teeny-Weenies, are more reserved and cautious, often looking askance at the viewer, sometimes not engaging the viewer at all. Whether they reflect the times or just my own reserve is something to ponder.
Sorry, I'm not nesting yet. I am in the midst of preparing for an open studio so that also means cleaning the parts of my apartment that cannot be blocked off from view. I look around in dismay at the pretty much total lack of nesting even after 2 years of living here.
I moved from a place that I had invested much time and energy into making a nest for myself- colorful, quirky, cozy and warm. Okay- and stuffed to the rafters with charming stuff. But I was not able to financially sustain it, I lost the house, the garden, the studio and about 95% of my belongings. So, now I am in an apartment in an urban setting with a few shabby rooms and a workroom and a bunch of boxes of books still packed- no bookshelves; a few boxes of decorative items that I managed to bring with me- still packed; and a few sticks of furniture. I did a bit of painting when I first moved in and tried to set it up in a comfortable manner but then I ran out of steam. I have been puzzled by my lack of desire to fix the place up.
I was speaking with a wonderful and insightful friend last evening and she said something that illuminated my anhedonia for me. I had mentioned that I had done almost nothing to improve the apartment since I moved in and she had last seen it. She said she wasn't surprised. Well, I was surprised by her response. She explained that she had two other friends who had also lost everything in the past few years- through house fires- and neither of them showed any desire to nest again either.
My desire to acquire anything beyond necessities for the apartment is low to non-existent, my desire to even browse is low. I used to be an agreeable browser- I could browse flea-markets or shops with no impulse or compulsion to buy, just filling my eyes with visual candy was enough, thank you. I used to love to read shelter magazines- especially UK Country Living. Not now. I picked up a copy recently to see if that would spark something- decorating porn to revive a dormant home-libido. Nah, nada, zip, zero, zilch.
Now I recognize that my thought process is: why buy things or invest in a place that may be gone in the wink of an eye? Why potentially put myself through all that again? I have moved on but only enough to get just out of sight of the past. I have stopped and am stuck around the corner from the disaster, unable though to keep walking forward. But my life is not all stagnation and resignation. I have moved forward in other, less material aspects of my life- and for that I am very grateful.
So, perhaps there is a glimmer of hope on the horizon; perhaps that will be enough to get me to move my feet a few inches away from this stuck corner; perhaps I will start to dream again- perhaps of a garden, perhaps of a kitchen...
I treated myself to a short day in NYC today. I used to think a long day would be fulfilling but usually ended up feeling crabby, tired and utterly forlorn at around 3pm; so today I got in a little after noon and just caught the 4:30 bus home. I was not too tired, my feet didn't hurt and I wasn't feeling marooned so it was either comfier shoes- a possibility- or a shorter stay- or perhaps both. But I digress...
My first stop was Mood Fabrics. Those of you who are Project Runway junkies like me will recognize the name. And let's face it, who can resist that combination of whinging narcissism, enough al-anonic behavior to single-handedly fill a meeting, and amazing technical ability? But I digress...
I was treated to a lovely selection of buttons- not as quirky, as wonderful, as inexpensive nor as bounteous as the long-lamented and greatly missed K Trimmings- but I digress... Got a handful of charming buttons but my camera's battery is out so I cannot show you- ah well.
My next stop was to be Purl Soho but I had neglected to write down the address before I left home so I wandered around Soho for a while and, unable to find their new digs, gave up and moved on.
It was just as well that I had not stopped at Purl as I needed that money for my next objective- Podunk.
Podunk? Isn't that where I come from- a small inconsequential town in the North East? No, actually Podunk is the name of the most charming, idiosyncratic tearoom in the East Village. Two years or so ago I had clipped a short but glowing review of the place from the NYTimes and kept it on my refrigerator. I would read it and say to myself, "someday I will go there."
Well, today I finally went. It is on 5th street to the west of 2nd Avenue, a hole-in-the-wall sort of place, modest in the extreme in its signage and decor. But the aroma when I walked in from the blustery, cold sidewalk--- the warm embrace of savoury baking: butter, wheat & rosemary. They could charge just for the delight of wrapping oneself in that aroma.
Mindful of the "No Sniveling" sign above the counter, I ordered an "Old Friends" tea for one. (Perhaps they should call it "Absent Friends" when it is a single order. But I digress...) The tray came with a nice pot of Earl Grey tea, cucumber sandwiches, scones with unsweetened whipped cream & blackberry jam, several assorted cookies, a small slice of vanilla sponge cake, a small slice of a lemon pound cake and some luscious fresh raspberries, blackberries and blueberries. (Fortunately, the owner did not count my request of "no strawberries, please" as sniveling.) The sweet things were garnished with mint; the savoury, with a sprig of majoram.
The next time you are in NYC, stop in to Podunk and treat yourself to a most civilized and delicious repast.
I reminisced recently about a group my parents were part of when they were young and how it enabled them to buy good art. I was asked to pass it along via this blog so here it is. Back in the 50's when my parents were a young couple living in a village outside of Youngstown, Ohio, they formed a group with other young couples in the area. They called it the Hysterical Society. They were all interested in art, books, current events, good cooking and martinis. There were, if I remember correctly, 12 couples in the group. They met monthly at one couple's home- that couple cooked the dinner, other members of the group contributed dishes- another couple was responsible for the evening's entertainment. There were many delightful evenings at our house that I got to catch glimpses of from the stairs- and yummy leftovers the next day. All well and good. But the thing that caught the fancy of the people I was telling this to was the unique and wonderful system they worked out to purchase art.
Each year, all the couples would contribute a set sum of money into a common fund. That year one couple would pick out a piece of work at the annual Mid-Year Show at the Butler Institute of American Art and purchase it with that pooled money. The work of art would then be hung for a month in each of the homes of all the other members of the group. At the end of the rotation, the work would be the property of the couple that picked it out. The next year, all the members of the group would again contribute to the fund and the next couple on the list would choose a work and it would rotate through the other households and so on.
This was a great way to build a community, buy art and support artists. The works people chose may not have been my parents' taste in art- the art they chose may not have been another couples' cup of tea either; there were undoubtedly works that did not hang in the place of honor during the month. The great thing was that the work did not have to appeal to everyone. It also enabled young families to purchase art that they otherwise may not have been able to afford. Because of this plan, I was privileged to grow up in a home with good books on the shelves, good original art on the walls, and music- and my family was not wealthy by any means.
I offer this idea to anyone who wants to employ it.
I am so excited about a workshop I am going to take with Christie Scheele this coming Wednesday. She is a very successful artist and mentors other artists in improving their careers. I felt a little sheepish about signing up for such a workshop, but I have to admit that my career is stalled. I am not living up to my abilities and talents. I need to show my work outside of this area and most of my fumbling efforts to date have not been successful.
So, I am allowing myself to feel some hope that she will be able to find a key that has eluded me so far. I'll let you know how it went.
This evening I wandered into the local chain fabric store after having made some photocopies at the chain office-supply store next door. As usual I headed to the button racks, hoping to find a few interesting examples of the koumpounologist's arcane art. I was a bit taken aback to find that the button rack was full of interesting buttons- and a bit disturbed.
You would think I would be thrilled. But I could only shake my head in rueful disillusion. Card after card of buttons designed to entice me- but that was the problem. It was like shooting fish in a barrel. A large part of the thrill was- and remains- the hunt. Searching through bins of old, dusty cards from the 60's or earlier. Pawing through the contents of button jars purchased at yard sales or flea markets for the few gems. Sorting the contents of almost opaque old plastic bags full of odd buttons. Opening a rusty, battered mint tin from someone's grandmother that had been placed in my hands by a generous friend. The squeak of an ancient display rack in a small five & dime in a small town on a blue highway...
None of that here- the charm of buttons has been co-opted by the chain store.
Did I buy some? Of course I did. I did not, however, choose the obviously cute buttons- too slick, too calculated. I need to endow them with charm through the process of making my art with them- not slap on some ready-made charm. It all reminds me of what happened when the market was flooded with those ghastly teapots that were consciously-designed to look like a sewing table or a tea table. I love real, authentic teapots- they are marvels of useful design. And I love real buttons. Can inner authenticity be achieved through outward means- no, but I can applaud these little bits of authenticity in an increasingly unauthentic world.
My name is Polly and I am a koumpounomaniac.
