Friday, June 18, 2010

Buzzard's Nest

The Buzzard's Nest Volume 2,   June 18, 2010

An old bird's view of Shady Grove.

Orville Reilly O'Reilly, Editor in Chief and Journalist

Photos courtesy of Down to Earth

I must apologize for the long delay since my last communication with you loyal fans. Rose and I were vacationing at my trailer in Florida. We enjoyed ourselves so much tooling around on the little red motrocycle that Boomer sold us we just couldn't tear ourselves away.

But enough about us I am sure you are waiting to hear about the other residents of the Grove. 

Love will find a way.
Unfortunately Boomer is still waiting for a leg donor.  But he has not been dwelling on this lately.  He has found a little wicker wheelbarrow and since he has been blessed with  longish arms he can touch the ground and propel himself along quite nicely.  He does complain of sore knuckles but we are working on making him some wooden blocks that will solve that problem. There are some cruel folk who have referred to him in the past, rather prophetically I might add,  as a knuckle dragger and now this has come to pass.  Folks should watch their tongues. Any of us could be afflicted.

He is a pretty happy fellow these days since he has met a young lady.  They have a lot in common since the young lady, name of Ethel Mermaid, has no legs either.  Just shows you that even being from a different background and culture (hers is Aquaculture) does not stop these two and many others from falling in love.

Some of the other residents have been speculating and  tittering about how they make love and whether she will be able to deliver a baby, what will it look like etc.  It is not for me to comment on this affair. I just wish them well and I rest assured that love will find a way. I admit that I find it hard to get the images out of my head. I will think of baseball scores.

All the other folk are doing well and wishing you a happy summer.

Over and out.
Editor in Chief Orville Reilly O'Reilly

Wednesday, March 24, 2010

Did you see the movie?

Using one of those great S.O. Dollicious African American doll patterns produced by Sandra M. Blake I have been sewing my little hands off the last couple of days. But I am really enjoying the challenge of working with her complex (for me) patterns.

And after all the hard work this handsome young man is emerging. I don't know too much about him yet except he says he is a friend of  Star's.

When he introduced himself as Ben Thayer I immediately said, "Did you get the t-shirt?"  Of course, he didn't get the joke.  Ben in  "Been there. Done that. Got the t-shirt.Saw the movie. Read the book."

Sigh...I have just lived too long.

I am sure we will be hearing more about Ben as soon as he gets dressed. I admit it was a little disconcerting interviewing him while he wore nothing but his shoes. But I can vouch for those rumors about men with big feet......

Even with a complete wire skeleton, without a nice solid pair of well fitted shoes I think a light breeze would blow him over. Once more back to the drawing board on the standing thing.

I was happy to see that he was much more flexible than I thought.

Then I remembered that I had some doll's eyes from about 20 years ago. Voila! These brown ones worked great. With the size of those pupils he must be on something. And I gotta straighten out that prize fighter nose.

But he has a great fro!

Remember I told you once before I was experimenting with placement of eyelids?  Just for the record here is what happens when you change the position of the eyelids. You can figure out the emotions yourself. I am  thinking the more sleepy look in the last photo will be the final choice.


Friday, March 19, 2010

New Old Jane...a retrospective of ceramics - The Crone Affair

Sometime in the mid 70's I took a ceramics class at my old high school. I got hooked. I think it was the punching and slamming of the clay that attracted me at first. A good release for the pent up anger occasioned by a looming divorce. It was the first of several short courses I dabbled in. And the first of several short marriages!!!

Mostly I tried to get access to a studio where I could fiddle around on my own and get things fired. That was my first mistake. I never really learned how to do it properly and often have "kiln accidents" that a more knowledgeable person would probably avoid.  Due to the disappointment occasioned by the last accident several years ago I have not picked up a lump of clay since.
I had spent almost a month painstakingly sculpting an old lady and I was very happy with the results. She was to join my previously sculpted mother and child that sit on a small garden fountain. In winter they adorn this small indoor water feature. In summer they sit near my back porch on this one.

The addition of the elderly woman would form the trilogy that is significant to Pagans. The Maiden, the Mother, and the Crone represent not only the three phases or seasons of life, but also the three aspects of the Goddess.
I ever so carefully set her aside and covered her with a vented plastic bag that would allow the clay to dry slowly. Then over the space of a week or two I gradually exposed more of her to the air till finally she was dry enough to fire in the kiln without explodiing.

The bisque firing went well.  I applied some crackle glaze to match the other two sculptures and fired her again. The glaze had disappeared from all of the items in the kiln. WTF???? Had I forgotten to glaze them?

I should have known something was very wrong then but I tried again and this time her legs broke off and she slumped over on to her elbow.

I think that the element in the kiln is over heating and failing to shut off and thus it burned the glaze off the
sculpture and also caused the clay to become molten and slump over.  She sits...or rather leans over, looking down scornfully from a shelf, to mock my lack of expertise.
I took such care with her tiny feet. DAMMIT!!!

See how her right arm stretched out really thin at the elbow as she listed over to one side? She is perhaps the last ceramic clay sculpture I may ever make but  time may heal the psychic wounds.

I do miss working in clay as it is useful for it's strength and durability, when done right!

Thursday, March 18, 2010

First Edition of The Buzzard's Nest

Orville, as I suspected, was a newspaper editor before retiring. The assortment of colored pencils in his shirt pocket was my first clue.

Now, using the perhaps short amount of time he has left he has initiated a newspaper for the residents of Shady Grove. He has collected some pretty interesting secrets about his fellow inmates but they will soon be public knowledge. Or as Orville likes to say, the chickens will come home to roost.  Watch out chickens that old buzzard Orville is on your trail.

With all the fuss over the party and wooing Rose he just missed launching the paper on St. Patrick's day. To keep expenses to a minimum I offered to publish it for him on line.
The Buzzard's Nest Volume 1, March 18, 2010  
An old bird's view of  Shady Grove.

Orville Reilly O'Reilly
Editor in Chief

Photo courtesy of Down to Earth

My view; a letter from the Editor:

As some of you know I was Editor of a prominent newspaper before my retirement. I guess I must have absorbed some of that printer's ink into my blood stream. I miss putting my beak into other people's business and telling everyone else about it.

Thanks to my dear friend and creator, renowned photo journalist Down to Earth for helping me launch this first edition free of charge by publishing on line. You will just have to find something else to line the bottom of your bird cage.

Now I want you folks to think of this newspaper as your own.  You can control what I say about you by telling me your stories and alerting me to any tidbits or gossip about the other residents. Or I can let my old buzzard nose loose to sniff out some perhaps smelly things you would rather let die. It is your paper, your choice.

Some of you have suggested that I mention the goings on at the St. Patrick's day dance but I have exercised my editorial priveleges and left that story out. Suffice it to say it will be a long time before I pull out my Feadóg in public again.

If any of you want to put your two cents drop me a line care of  The Buzzards Nest Letters to The Editor.

I am very proud of my heritage. Irish literature is filled with great playwrights, novelists, short story writers, poets, essayist, historians, humorist and philosophers. They come with names like Johnathon Swift, James Joyce, Oscar Wilde, William Butler Yeats, Francis Bacon, Edmund Burke, Oliver  Goldsmith, John O'Keefe and George Bernard Shaw.

For our premier issue, I have taken the high road, avoiding idle gossip and preferring to launch The Buzzard's Nest with an informative piece by  Thomas Cahill, author of “How the Irish Saved Civilization.”  A special thanks to friends Linda and Joan for alerting me to this fascinating piece of Irish history.

Turning Green With Literacy
WHY should we celebrate the Irish?
No doubt, several reasons could be proffered. But for me one answer stands out. Long, long ago the Irish pulled off a remarkable feat: They saved the books of the Western world and left them as gifts for all humanity.
True enough, the Irish were unlikely candidates for the job. Upon their entrance into Western history in the fifth century, they were the most barbaric of barbarians, practitioners of human sacrifice, cattle rustlers, traders in human beings (the children they captured along the Atlantic edge of Europe), insane warriors who entered battle stark naked. And yet it was the Irish who were around to pick up the pieces when the Roman Empire collapsed in the West under the increasing assaults of Germanic tribes.
It is hard to overstate the momentousness of that collapse. By the early sixth century, Western Europe had become largely illiterate, its teachers dead, its students on the run, its libraries turned into kindling. Ireland, however, had just settled down, thanks to a tough old bird named Patrick, a Roman citizen raised in the province of Britain who had been grabbed by Irish slavers when he was a teenager. It was after his escape that Patrick resolved to seek priestly ordination and return to Ireland to preach the Gospel.
The glories of Christianity — particularly its books — fascinated the Irish. They came to love the Roman alphabet that Patrick and his successors taught them, as well the precious illuminated manuscripts that he presented to them. There was indeed nothing in their intellectual heritage to block their receptivity to the Christian faith.
There was also nothing in their heritage to draw them to master the intricacies of the Greco-Roman tradition. This turned out to be a stroke of luck, for the ancient Irish never embraced classical cynicism or the gloomy Greco-Roman sense of fatedness.
Instead, they remained in many ways remarkably unjaded, full of wonder at the unexpectedness of human life. “Well, the heart’s a wonder,” says Pegeen Mike in John Millington Synge’s comedy “The Playboy of the Western World.” It was a sentiment first articulated by Patrick’s converts, who put down their weapons and took up their pens. They copied out the great Greco-Roman books, many of which they didn’t really understand, thus saving in its purest form most of the classical library.
The Irish fanned out across Europe, salvaging books wherever they could, making copies, reassembling libraries and teaching the newly settled barbarians of the continent to read and write.
But they did more than this: they managed to infuse the emerging medieval world with a playfulness previously unknown. In the margins of the books they copied, the Irish scribes drew little pictures, thickets of plants, flowers, birds and animals. Human faces occasionally peek through the tangle, faces of childlike delight and awe. If you were a scribe copying out some especially ponderous philosophical Greek, the margin in which you could reflect on your own world served as a source of “refreshment, light and peace,” to quote the ancient Latin liturgy. These scribal doodles eventually became elaborate design elements, leading the way to Irish masterpieces like the Book of Kells.
The scribes also contributed jokes, poems and commentary to the works they replicated, saving for us a world of fresh insights. One scribe, tortured by the difficult Greek he was copying, wrote: “There’s an end to that — and seven curses with it!” Another complained of a previous scribe’s sloppiness: “It is easy to spot Gabrial’s work here.” A third, at the bottom of a tear-stained page, tells us how upset he was by the death of Hector on the Plain of Troy. In these comments, sharp and sweet by turns, we come in contact with the sources of Irish literary humor and hear uncanny echoes of Swift, Wilde, Shaw, Joyce, Beckett.
One scribe leaves us a charming poem about his cat, who hunts mice through the night while the scribe hunts words. Another, presumably a female scribe, describes a young man in four brief lines:
He’s a heart,
He’s an acorn from an oak tree,
He’s young.
Kiss him!
A third scribe (for they were not all monks and nuns) wonders who will sleep tonight with “blond Aideen.” (It’s quite certain someone will.)
The quotations above are English translations from the Irish, the first vernacular language of Europe to be written down. In this way, the Irish initiated what would eventually become the great torrent of European national literatures.
We have many reasons to be grateful to St. Patrick and his fierce and playful Irishmen and Irishwomen. So on this St. Patrick’s Day, remember them as they would wish to be remembered. Read a book.

Near Tragedy Mars Festivities at Shady Grove

It was a lovely day with promises for an even lovelier evening. Before the party Rose and Reilly sat on Boomer's motorcycle for awhile.  She introduced him to her great grandson Tristan and her cat Mojo. They were chaperoned by friends and other family members who actually wanted to prevent Rose from taking off on another wild ride as she had a few weeks previous.

Star had come over early to practice some tunes for her gig at the party.  Heather was still trying to bend her leg back into place so she could go shopping.

Soon it was time to get ready so Reilly backed Rose into the cactus again and gave her a little good bye peck on the cheek.

The extraction of yet another cactus spine put Rose way behind and her butt was so swelled up she couldnt fit into her evening dress anyway. So she just grabbed a green hat and hoped for the best. 

Reilly had donned his glasses so he could read the words to Danny Boy when he rendered his quavering rendition accompanied by Star. After he was finished there was not a dry eye in the house. I was unsure as to whether it was due to the current epidemic of pink eye coursing through the home or the melancholy air.
But when he pulled out his Feadóg the whole room shouted with pleasure. If you are not familiar with the Feadóg then you are only pretending to be Irish.  

They danced and drank green "Near Beer" (you didn't think the Grove would actually serve alcohol did you?)  till the wee hour of  9 p.m. when the Administrator reminded everyone that they all had an early day tomorrow. 

As they left the common room O.R. suddenly stumbled and fell, spilling the contents of his mug. He lay face up on the green linoleum floor, groaning pitifully.

Rose showed admirable presence of mind in the face of this possible calamity. She sent Star to call an ambulance while she administered CPR. 

Wily Reilly, who had planned this in order to get Rose's attention, continued the ruse till the paramedics arrived.

He had hoped that during CPR Rose's tiny wrinkled lips would finally touch his. But this was not to be. Rose was skilled in the new CPR sanctioned by the Mayo Clinic where lip action is not involved. She found this a great boon since the configuration of her nose and chin had always been a serious obstruction to the older method of CPR - and to love making in general. 

The Paramedics examined him and pronounced him drunk* but not harmed. Rose took the opportunity to hike up her skirt and show them her butt. They suggested an antibiotic salve for the cactus spine wounds and covered her up hastily. Thus ended an otherwise pleasant evening.

* Reilly was drinking green whiskey he snuck into his mug.

Wednesday, March 17, 2010

The Greening of the Blue Planet

Ask any astronaut and they will tell you that the planet earth is a beautiful blue when viewed from outer space.  Every day except March 17th that is. On that day it glows a gorgeous green. Even the rivers run green with all the effluent from green beer.

It is Saint Paddy' day and nowhere is it more palpable than at the Shady Grove Nursing Home. The kitchen staff are mixing up vats of green beer, the halls are festooned with shamrocks and everyone is speaking with a phony Irish accent. All but Orville Reilly O'Reilly that is. His is real and the envy of all the men.

When Orville Reilly O'Reilly sets his sights on a pretty miss he never falters, never fails. He just knows that his Irish luck will ensure his success with Rose. He has been eying her ever since he set his brown-sandalled foot down at the Grove. And he vows he will possess her from the bottom of her tiny tinseled feet to the top of her fuzzy-bunned head.

To that end he started letting his eyebrows and moustache grow because he heard that Rose liked long hairy things. He didn't know they were talking about her cat Mojo.

As you all know Rose has been rumored to be involved with Boomer, the dashing young(er) biker and maintenance man. Rose however will admit to nothing more than friendship.

But what with Boomer set to go into hospital for major surgery Rose has been very worried and at loose ends. Since her arrest for reckless endangerment Boomer has hidden the key to his motorcycle so most of the time Rose just sits on it dreaming of bygone wheelies.

Sensing this void, O.R., like the predator that he is, stepped right in to fill it. Now he didn't want to burn his lips on another man's porridge so he first chatted her up in the lobby.  She assured him that she was free, white and 91.

Then, at the morning post-bran flake and prune juice get-togethers,  he wowed her with his knowledge of obscure alternative health remedies for arthritis and gout.  And he was not afraid to laugh at himself. He could tell the funniest stories about his bodily functions and the time he lost his false teeth in the Jalapeno chip dip at a Bingo game.

The women all tittered as they fell under the thrall of his Irish brogue. The men drifted off dejectedly to play euchre leaving a clear field for O.R.  They needn't have bothered as O. R. couldn't see anyone but Rose.  It had been awhile since he had his peripheral vision checked. And he didn't want to wear his glasses till he was sure Rose would go out with him.

"You'll never plough a field by turning it over in your mind," said he to himself. So off he set for the lobby where he backed Rose into a potted cactus. Without further ado he asked her to accompany him to the Saint Patrick's day dance on  pub night at the Grove.

He took her squirming and yelps of pain for those of excitement and delight and congratulated himself on a successful courtship.

Rose hastily accepted and limped off to her room to remove a cactus spine from her bony butt. She suppressed a giggle at the thought of how the other gals would turn an appropriate green when they heard of her date with the popular O.R.

Forthwith O.R. dashed off to his tailor to pick up his new sports coat.

Details of the party tomorrow.

Life's too short not to be Irish!

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

New Old Jane...a retrospective - more nudes from 1970's

I cannot say I am proud of the next few nudes. After the class at Humber College was over I turned to men's magazines for poses in order to practice using shading techniques with conte and pastels.

I had been reading a book about subliminal advertising and how corporations induce us to buy things by hiding images and words in seemingly innocent things. One method was to very quickly flash the words soft drink and popcorn during movies. The human eye could not register these words but the brain did and shortly thereafter there would be a run on the concession stand. This has since been outlawed I believe.

Interestingly, in paper ads,  images of skulls in cigarette smoke or on an ice cube in a glass of liquor seemed to boost sales. Hidden profanities had the same effect.  I decided to conduct an experiment.  I wove profane words subtly through the hair of some of my nudes.  Then I took several to work with me and asked people to choose the drawing they were most attracted to.  Damned if most didn't pick the one with the "dirty" hair.

Around that time I met a young art gallery manager who offered to frame my nudes and put them up for sale in the gallery. We agreed that if some didn't sell I would pay for the framing of those. Only one out of about ten had not sold when the time was up so I have that one in my private collection.

Around this time I did a few other nude portraits of friends so even if I did have photos I wouldn't post them for reasons of privacy.  They know who they are!

I also did one of a friend's husband. Luckily for her, after a tumultuous marriage she divorced him. Later he murdered his new girlfriend for which crime he became a guest of the government.

Next came another Wrong Doer from the Right Side of the Law.  A woman I worked with had recommended me to a young lawyer who wanted a nude portrait of himself.

I am not quite sure what he thought he was going to get but I assure you I was the soul of an uptight boring professional.  Perhaps he did not get what he was expecting but at any rate this gentleman conveniently had forgotten his wallet when it came time to pay.  I had no qualms about chasing him down and embarrassing him in front of a waiting room full of clients in order to get my fee. I don't like to be messed with.

Trying to make a living from your art ain't for sissies.

Okay I think I am done with nude drawings for  now.

Monday, March 15, 2010

New Old Jane...a retrospective - Humber college 1970's - drawings of nudes

The human face and figure have always been an inspiration to me.  I first took life drawing in California and it annoyed me that female models were always totally nude while male models usually wore G strings.  Humber was different in that regard. It was equal opportunity nudity for all.

I have never understood the big whoop over nudity. Have you? I mean we all have the same equipment just that some of us arrange it better. But if you are disturbed by nudity then click the red X at the top and leave.  Bye now. still here?  Then take a gander at what I was up to in the 70's.

This woman was quite elderly and over weight so it was an interesting and unusual study of the nude.  You don't get to draw all these nooks and crannies every day of the week.

Sorry I  didn't crop these pictures so at least my Betty Boop slipper didn't show but I am basically a lazy person.

Next is a contour drawing  - one of my favorite exercises for its purity of line. One puts the pen on the paper and the eyes on the object they want to draw. Ideally the eyes never look down at the paper again until the drawing is finished.

But most of us have to look down briefly when adding a line that must meet up with another line exactly like when you add a new body part like an arm or a boob. It is meant to teach communication between the hand and eye. It is lots of fun and full of surprises.

Lastly this young fellow was delightful. I just loved his big mop of permanently curled hair. So seventies gay white boy.

New Old Jane...a retrospective of more portraits from the sixties

This thing slows down if you put too many photos on so I had to start a new one.

Wouldn't it be cool if the two women in the portraits from the previous blog saw it and contacted me? I lost touch with them many, many years ago.

Anyway. Here is one of my first husband Doug. He passed away in 1974 at the age of 29.

I am not sure why I made the pair of pants  on a separate sheet and stuck it to the main picture with scotch tape. Damn shame that the tape has deteriorated and messed it up now. Perhaps it was a naughty picture. I must go peek underneath later.

And last but not least my long time friend Ann. We worked together in Ottawa, drank together on the Quebec side, were working on Spark Street when Kennedy was killed, didn't go to Australia together, and we lost touch - all in the early 60's. We  were reunited about 10 years ago.

Isn't she a fresh faced young innocent? : - )

BTW dont let the signature confuse you. Liza...short for Elizabeth.  I experimented with different names and signatures for a long time before I hit on one I liked....the dragonfly icon that I use exclusively now.

You know this is one of my nicer portraits I think. I like the sunny fresh colors. thanks Ann for sharing that with me. I had forgotten all about it.

New Old Jane...a retrospective of portraits

Here are some portraits of school mates and friends done at different stages of my life. This was done sometime after I was eight or ten years of age.  Pardon my foot.

Also pardon my inability to get this page lined up properly. I can't seem to get rid of the gaps without losing the pictures so I give up! 

This next pastel is of long time friend Nancy, done around the same time. It is interesting (to me at least!) to compare how my style changed in the line drawing of her done ten or twelve years later, after my brief stint at California College of Arts and Crafts in Oakland.

The next two are of my art school dormitory room mate, Laurie circa 1961-62. The first is a pen and ink line drawing and the second is one of the very rare oil paintings I have ever done.

It was quite torturous for a shy only child to have a room mate.  But she saved the day with her wonderful singing and playing guitar. She even taught me how to play and spawned a life long interest in early folk music.

Laurie drop me a line via this post if you are still in the land of the living.

Here is another friend and dorm resident from those few months in Art School. She went on to marry a musician named Mike from the band called Notes from the Underground. Sandy if you are out there I would love to hear from you as well.

I sure would like to know what happened to my CCAC drawing teacher Ralph Borges. I had and still have great admiration for him.

Ralph if you see this drop me a line as well.

New Old Jane...a retrospective - childhood drawings

As soon as I could hold a pencil my mother sat me down at a little red table in a corner of the living room and gave me a sheet of paper. It kept me out of her hair and made me very happy. I would labor away quietly for hours. Pretty soon I was drawing recognizable horses and cowgirls and all that good stuff. None of those early works were deemed worth saving. 

I guess no one thought that it was unusual for a child of three or four to be using that much detail in their drawings.  But some of my later work from school days was saved.

Since I seem to have entered another hiatus with the dolls I thought I would fill the gap with some stuff that is pretty funny from my early days of acute fashion awareness. 

My source of inspiration was usually the Eaton's or Simpson's catalogues where I was assured of a ready supply of models that didn't move. As anyone who knows me can attest I have gotten over that keen fashion sense now, preferring to slop around in stretch pants and baggy t shirts. I do however watch America's, Canada's. Britain's and Australia's Top Model and Project Runway every chance I get.

The earliest ones I have are from when I was eight years old. The paper is quite fragile now but they have stood up incredibly well considering they spent almost 60 years rolled around a cardboard tube in one attic or another.

You can click on any of the photos to enlarge them. In this one I was ever so careful to be sure that the little red boat on the dress changed shape with the folds in the dress. Yes. I have always been anal. It is genetic.

Dig the matching socks for the broad in orange. And the pageboy hair style.

Remember this hair style? I was anal enough at eight years old to try to paint lace with my bristly little dime store brush! 

From a very young age I was attracted to stilletto heels. I wobbled around on my first pair of  four inch heels at probably 17.

I was still wearing four inchers to work and even shopping afterwards when I was in my fifties. A friend used to call them my CFM pumps. That all changed when I moved to Ecuador. The cobbled streets, muddy paths and potholes were decidedly stilletto unfriendly.  Running shoes took their place.

I have many more of these fashion type drawings and paintings but these are fairly representative. 

Some artist friends and I got together once to look at each other's art work from childhood.  One friend who hated her large flat feet never showed feet in any of her drawings. They were always off the bottom of the page somewhere.  In my own drawings most models had tiny pug noses which reflected my hatred of my own generous shnozz.

Making art represented an escape from a sometimes frightening, lonely and painful childhood into a world of my own creation where I was safe. It still does.

Saturday, March 6, 2010

Orville Reilly O'Reilly

A charming gentleman by the name of Orville Reilly O'Reilly recently moved in to Shady Grove. He is as Irish as Paddy's pig and has a lovely smile, when his teeth are in.  His quick Irish wit and his natty attire have made him a hit with the ladies already. Here we see him lounging in the lobby as he checks out the residents. 

He is wearing his black socks and  his favorite brown sandals that don't press on his corns.

Reilly may have been an accountant, an editor or a teacher. He always carries colored pencils in his shirt pocket and corrects typos he sees in the newspaper or books. Here he is looking a bit dishevelled, wearing one of the pairs of glasses I made from Sculpey. 

To create Orville, or O.R. as his friends call him, I designed a new body that looks more like a leotard. It does the job of hiding the rough ends of the arms and legs..which has always bothered me aesthetically..and yet still allows quite a bit of movement.

Mixed bag

I took a breather from doll making to do some related activities. I made these accessories - eye glasses and shoes. These are made from Sculpey, a polymer clay that bakes at low temperatures in an ordinary oven.  At least I can make the soles for the shoes. I may try the tops later on. Here is a tray ready to be baked.  This is a first try so I will let you know how they work out.

When I went out to the studio this morning Tristan, the Emo kid who is Rose's great grand son ( I thought he said  his name wasThurgoode, silly me)  was wearing a pair of red sparkly high tops.  He said a friend gave them to him. Saves me the trouble of trying to make him some but they looked strangely familiar.
Rose ,Tristan and Mojo were going out for a spin.

I did some checking around and found out  that LaTricia, who does some part time work at the home, was shoeless BUT she was wearing a mink stole that looked suspiciously like the one Rose said she pawned for gas money. The plot thickens.
I have started a box that I call "The Parts Department" which contains doll parts that I have for one reason or another not used. They will come in handy at some point I hope.

BTW I heard Rose speaking about a new fellow at the home, a Mr. O'Reilly. Seems like Boomer may have some competition. 

Tuesday, March 2, 2010

Finding Emo continued

My research told me that I needed to make some really tight black jeans, a tight long sleeved t shirt and a short sleeved t shirt to layer over it, a scarf or tie and some fingerless gloves. Very appropriate for a fingerless doll.

Lucky for me my Muse Lorelei alerted me to Linda McPhee's workshop on Sunday. Linda was making Hallowe'en costumes for kids. She demonstrated how to make some super simple patterns. My whole doll making life was changed. What a breeze to make pants and tops now. 

Not only that but she had a dollmaker on too.  Or more properly a doll decorator. She buys ready made muslin bendable dolls, dresses them in thrift store finds and makes beaded faces. Unfortunately I did not get her name.   

Here is my first pair of black jeans using the McPhee pant pattern that I hastily scribbled down. You can see one leg cut out and one ready to be cut out. 

Nice fit.
I forgot to take a picture of the t shirt but I followed Linda's recommendations on this too and cut with the fold over the shoulder. And that may be where the name comes from. It does look like the letter T!

Here he is in his vest, and tie. I have never tied a tie in my life but remembered an episode of Six Feet Under where Claire was tying a tie for her brother and she said "The rabbit goes around the log and then he goes around again and dives into his rabbit hole." Worked for me...thanks Claire.  Sorry about the picture quality. 

The only name for our friend that has presented itself  so far is Thurgoode but I cant quite get my head around it.  I have renamed him Tristan. That to me sounds like the spanish word for sad, triste. So goodbye Thurgoode. Hello Tristan.  Very odd but he is definitely Rose's great grand son. 

And while rooting through my bits and bobs I found an eensy teensy skull meant to be an earring. I stuck it through his nose as a piercing to match his skull vest. I don't have a picture of it yet.

And just a head's up for Boomer.  There is a gentleman at the Shady Grove who is showing a keen interest in Rose.  He may make an appearance any day now to claim her as his own.  And then again...he may not.

Paper Mache Clay Experiment - What I would do differently

This is so typical of me to just jump in where angels fear to tread and make up my own rules.  Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn...