Monday, October 11, 2010

Light in Dark Places

Ok, I'm feeling like I should offer up a little back story as to how I got here.
All my life, I have been interested in art...
It might run in my family somewhat, my father was very gifted in drawing. He had the kind of job that meant he wasn't home much and sometimes he would come and go before I even woke up. Often, the only way I knew he had been home would be a drawing left on the dining room table for me to find in the morning. He drew mostly horses,(what little girl is not horse obsessed?)usually mustangs, running in a western landscape.
A lot happened down the years after and even though we were estranged for a long time, I often found myself wishing I would have kept some of those drawings. He passed away a few years ago, and though the circumstances of his death were normal and not entirely unexpected, his memorial service was surreal. Afterwards, I wished I had some tangible evidence of how he had been, not the imaginary life he had created later, and I thought back to the picture of those mustangs...running. Free.

The women in my mother's family were tough and quietly strong, but seemed doomed to be married to angry men who drank. They were country women who ran the home, and had businesses on the side to help with income. They rented out cabins to hunters and fishermen and sold firewood to travelers. They also wove and sold rugs.
By the time I came along, the looms had been sold and my mother had a deep loathing for anything handmade. This was sad, because all I ever wanted to do was make things, but she, having grown up surrounded with handcrafted quilts, clothing, rugs, lace curtains, crocheted coverlets, and knitted scarves was not so inclined. Store bought things had to be better, in her mind, and handmade was synonymous with cheap and poor.
We still go round about this, and anytime I make something for her (why do I even try?)I have no idea if it goes straight to the closet or drawer or wherever.

The bead of the day is an organic focal that I named (with a little help) "Lethe".
Its one of the five rivers in Hades, and the one that the dead drink from to forget their previous lives. Its literal meaning is, "oblivion".


  1. My mom had the same feelings about 'handmade' - it was for the poor. She would have prefered a presswood bookshelf from Wal-Mart to a hand-crafted solid oak armoire. I think it's defintely something from that generation, people who were raised by Depression-era parents who scrimped and saved and re-used everything. Mom wanted to buy machine-made items, disposable if possible; it was her way of rejecting her poor upbringing.

    And we, of course, reject *our* moms values and want everything hand-made. The wheel, it turns. :)

  2. Hi M(q)! Thanks for stopping by.