Tuesday, January 20, 2009

Plip. Plip. Plip.

My studio is in an ancient mill in NH. We share our building with a large cast of characters, and along with them, the sounds of their daily activity. Right now, the people in the abutting unit are using some high velocity air gadget. Fluffy piles of stuff indeterminate filters under the fire door. We have to vacuum it daily. Cut that shit out. In the basement room beneath my kiln room, the boiler is howling away. I've seen it. It looks and sounds like a locomotive and reminds me of my college days in the Boston subway. When it's howling, we have heat. Heat in NH is good.

The guys across the hall are dragging pallet after pallet out to the loading dock. When I'm on the phone, I have to ask whoever I'm speaking with to repeat themselves. The freight elevator lies directly off of my shipping area. It's quiet now but last week, we heard its occupants discussing Nicole's boobs.

So, with all of this activity going on all around us, you'd think I wouldn't hear the steady plip of water dripping from the ceiling: Into a bowl in front of the printer. Into three storage bins lined up across the cushions of the couch. Into a bucket at the end of my design table. Into a trash can next to the sink. Onto the counter top and across the floor near the refrigerator. Into a bowl on the other counter. Onto the floor in the shipping area.

In a minute, I'll pick up the phone and call the property manager. Like I have almost every day since we moved in last month. He will answer in his usual Oh My F.ing Word, Get Over It voice. Send someone up to the roof (or not) to shovel off the snow that will keep fricken falling because it's winter and we live in NH
Plip.

Sunday, January 18, 2009

Handmade Showcase

Handmade Showcase is hosting a giveaway featuring my Christine Adolph inspired Forever Love plate. Go there. Now.

I'm Not Dead Yet.

I know. It's been two weeks. It's not that I haven't thought of you. I have. The knowledge that you're out there, waiting for my next post is a lot like sharing a summer night with a mosquito.

My silence is not due to a lack of material. I've amassed a wealth of brilliant ideas for posts. The problem is that I have no time to write them. Next weekend, I head to NY for a week - big gift show. I've had three months in which to prepare for this show. When did I start? This past Monday. I should be releasing a dozen new pieces. The grand total - three. Four if the stuff in the kiln is not a total bust.

I'll be back soon with an Atlanta update. Then I'll show you all pics of my new studio. Then, I'll introduce you to my awesome staff. Then, I'll tell you all about New York, where I plan to have at least one meal with the Wicked Famous Lorrie Veasey.

Stay with me, people. I'll be back.

Sunday, January 4, 2009

What Not To Wear

This weekend, I fly to Atlanta. For work. This means I will have to dress myself in something other than my standard work uniform. Getting dressed for my real life looks something like this: 1. step into the same pair of fat jeans that I wear every day because absolutely under no circumstance will I commit to a larger size. 2. slip on which ever long sleeved top features the least amount of cat hair.

So, I'm talking with Ireland, telling him about the trip, where I'll stay, meeting times and locations. "What are you going to wear?" he asks. What I wear is of paramount importance to Ireland. According to him, his tutelage over these last 18 months is the only reason people don't point at me on the street. Transforming me from a slut-muffin and into a wholesome, fresh-faced Irish lass is one of his primary goals in life. Because when I look good, he looks good. Oh Yeah.

So when he asks "what are you going to wear," he doesn't just ask the question, he dissertates - while looking over the top of his glasses. It's what I call his Father Time Look. He uses it when he's about to impart some wisdom he's certain I'll be too unsophisticated to appreciate. "Oh, I don't know," I respond. "Probably nice jeans and a top. Maybe a jacket."

He closes his eyes. Shakes his head. Sighs. "Ye can't wear fookin' jeans to a business meeting!" He is clearly distressed. Have I learned nothing from him? Really, I counter. What then, should I wear? A nice skirt, he replies. With a blouse. Oh, My Fricken Word. A blouse. I've seen the "blouse" he has in mind. It actually has cap sleeves and ruffles. I pause. Humor him. Shall I wear pearls, I ask. He considers this for a moment. T'would be nice, he responds. I roll my eyes. OMG. I'm an artist, I remind him. We don't wear ruffled shirts and pearls anywhere, for ANYTHING.

He's still wearing The Look. Once again, I've revealed myself as a classless & hopeless shrew in dire need of taming. Even white trash such as myself knows that no outfit is complete without proper footware. And on my feet, I ask? What shall I wear on my feet? A nice pair of heels, he counters. Perfect. You'll recognize me as the artist from New Hampshire teetering around the streets of Atlanta in heels and pearls. And lest we forget, a ruffled blouse.

I'll drive myself to the airport. I have no fricken idea what I'll be wearing. But I promise you, there will be no pearls. Or ruffles.