Upcycled Jewelry Workshop

On Wednesday night, at Ostara's Coffee House in West Cape May, I led a workshop in making upcycled jewelry. I brought all kinds of wonderful materials such as costume jewelry, charms, hardware pieces, fabric trims, and other oddities that I found in my studio. My students were cranking out their creations in large amounts. One young woman made 18 pieces! Here are a few photos of their work. Next Wednesday, July 25, will be my second Embroider Your Own Denim workshop, also at Ostara's. Come join the fun from 5:30-7:30pm!

"Of the Nymphs"

"Of the Nymphs" is a 10 minute film by Liz Waldie that features me as a performance artist and poet. 

https://vimeo.com/267454157

Dolls?

Am I really still playing with dolls?  Kind of.  I embroidered the antique doll that was my mother's, I made the rabbit doll out of a spice tin, I dressed the little monkey and the cat, and I gave the cat some ears.  I like them.  They make me smile when I look at them.  I hope they make you smile too!

A Golden Shovel Poem

The structure of a Golden Shovel poem is to take a short poem and use the words from one line as the ending of each new line in an original poem.  I used the first line from one of favorite poems by Emily Dickinson as my guide to write my own.

Emily Dickinson's poem:


After great pain a formal feeling comes--
The nerves sit ceremonious like tombs;
The stiff Heart questions--was it He that bore?
And yesterday--or centuries before?
The feet, mechanical, go round
A wooden way
Of ground, or air, or ought,
Regardless grown,
A quartz contentment, like a stone.
This is the hour of lead
Remembered if outlived,
As freezing persons recollect the snow--
First chill, then stupor, then the letting go.

My Golden Shovel poem:


Now is the time, not after,
not before, this moment is great.
Embrace the pain.
It is there – a
time for formal
reckoning. Release the feeling,
then peace comes.

A Film Is In the Works!

Last summer, a young woman named Liz Waldie from the University of the Arts in Philadelphia asked me if she could feature me in a short film that she is making for her senior thesis project.  Of course I said, "Yes!"  We started filming last fall, in various places such as my studio, a nature preserve, and a photo studio.  Mostly, I improvised - dancing, art making, and other kinds of performing.  Now we are almost done with the filming so Liz will start the process of editing and defining the film by what footage she chooses to include and how she puts it together.  It has been a wonderful experience to work with a young artist who challenges both herself and her ideas about what art can be.  "Experimental" is a word that described the kind of performance art that I made when I was her age.  I am glad to see that this approach has continued and that young people are still interested in pursuing it.  The film will have its premier in early May so stay tuned for more information. 

Photos by Shaina Nyman

Which way?

These signs hang above the door in my studio as a reminder to stay flexible and always be ready to improvise when the situation calls for it.  I find that this is especially important when I am teaching.  Tuning into what the children need and will respond to at any given moment during the class makes for a much more productive and satisfying learning experience, not just for the students, but for me as well.  Here is a piece that I wrote about such an experience when I was teaching dance at a school in Manhattan.

Snow. Glistening like glitter in the sunshine and mirrored in the sparkle of the children's eyes.

We were looking out the windows of the dance studio at the play space two stories below. It was covered with a thin blanket of untouched snow. I could feel the energy vibrating in the room – they needed to make their mark on that perfect blank white canvas. I can't remember what curriculum I had planned for the day's dance class, but it no longer mattered.
I asked my students to take a good long look at the scene below, and then close their eyes and see the same image in their mind. They had already taken off their shoes in preparation for dance but suddenly I asked them to put them back on. “Why?” “What are we doing?” “Are we really going OUTSIDE?”
I directed them to make a single line behind me and led them down the stairs and opened the door to the play space. Even though it had snowed it was not too cold and I knew they would be fine without their coats for a few minutes. I started to walk slowly, asked them to follow me and step right into each other's footprints. We began to draw a design in space with our feet. It curved and crossed itself, meandering here and there, making zig-zags and spirals. We smiled and giggled, giddy with the excitement of such a spontaneous moment. Then we climbed back up the stairs with flushed cheeks and cold toes.
We looked out the windows again. The view revealed a map, a flight pattern, an abstract painting, an ancient symbolic language, a plan, directions for making a dance. We remembered what it had looked like just a few minutes before and marveled at the transformation. I divided the children into groups and they worked on collaborative choreography. “What patterns do you see in the snow?” “What kind of movement do those patterns look like?” “What kind of a dance journey can you take yourselves on?” “What kinds of places can you visit?” I chose some music with a lively rhythm to help carry them along. The little dances that they made were amazing - full of skipping and sliding and tip-toeing, bodies morphing themselves into different moving shapes, arms akimbo, legs stretching and kicking. The smell of art was in the air.
Too soon it was time to go. They were off to another world, a different classroom, another subject to grapple with. Down the hallway I heard one of them say, “That was the best class I ever had.” It was only 9:15 in the morning but it had already been a good teaching day. Later, when I looked out the window again , the snow had melted, the design was gone, and the moment had passed.

Daffodil (a story)

Everyone called her Daffy, but her real name was Daffodil. She was born in the spring of course, a bulb flowering from her mother's womb. Her skin was fair, almost transparent, and her newborn head was covered with light blonde hair. She was unexpected - no one remembered planting her in the fall. It was just lucky that the squirrels didn't find her. She had been planted down deep, far from the other bulbs. She was alone except for the birds and the bees that hovered over her cradle. Her mother had died while giving birth to her and her father was carried away by the wind. Her little lips were thirsty for milk, like spring rain. She opened them wide to catch it when it came. It made her veins pulse with new life. But no one remembered feeding her.

-  Penelope Cake

A collage I made