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Mr. Grant must be scowling at the news, and not because of the usual bumbling incompetence in the WJM-TV newsroom, but because his best hire ever, Mary Richards, has finally let him down.
Mary Tyler Moore passed away this week and right now, all I want to do is pull out a hide-a-bed, grab a box of kleenex and mourn Mary the way that she mourned Chuckles the Clown. Laughter and tears.
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Hello! It's a short post today, as my photos can speak louder than my words. This is a new vignette in the shop, which I've titled "Murderous Rue Morgue Halloween Vignette". Isn't it gorgeous?
The collection includes a framed antique etching, a set of six Halloween classics, some pretty antique objects, along with two authentic skulls and two fake crows. Also included is a pair of wall brackets. (Only one is visible.) The candlesticks are so heavy, they're lethal. The little polished wood bottle holds precisely two drams of whatever liquid you prefer. And the pair of skulls was found in our woods (remember the coywolf?) and have been soaked in bleach for several weeks. They're lovely. Lovely bones.
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When I first walked into The Dovecote, I swore. Dang it! This is exactly the shop I want to open! As I filled my arms with ridiculously cool things at surprisingly palatable prices, I never stopped muttering like a jealous Othello.
Then I met the proprietress, Ellen Hildebrand, who's one cool chica, and I knew I was going to stalk her.
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You know that moment when you’re dating someone you really like and you come face-to-face with some bizarre relic from his or her childhood that you never saw coming? And that still holds sway in the present? At this point, you must make a choice. You can reach for the rose-colored glasses and accept Jeff's attendance at seventy-two Grateful Dead concerts as proof of his ability to really commit; you can convince yourself that Ellen’s collection of Virgin Mary candles is not in any way unholy; you can shrug off Chris’s bathtub full of floating Fisher Price Little People as innocent fun.
Or you can run.
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This collection took months to put together. Kris and I messed around with different frames. We tried chunky wood finials. A shiny orange vase. Worn baskets. I can't tell you how many iterations we attempted. Probably twenty. We got close a couple of times, but after stepping away for a day or so, we would come back, growl in frustration, and begin again.
The screenprint, titled "Winter Sun", is the work of Milwaukee artist Miriam K. Eaton who passed away in 2008. In 2013, I bought a large box of her prints and old posters without knowing much about her.
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Brrrr. Temps here in Wisconsin are low low low. In Shakespeare's words, "Tis cold as a dead man's nose." Get thee under a blanket, make thee a cup of hot coffee, and let us talk Dr. Zhivago.
The film was released in 1965 but it was in the '70s when I sat up late one night and watched it on television. I loved Omar Sharif. He reminded me of my father. Not just his handsome good looks and his sophisticated charm. Dr. Zhivago was a physician who wrote poetry and loved Lara, a fair-skinned nurse. My dad was a physician who painted watercolors and loved Maryann, a fair-skinned nurse. Omar Sharif was born in Egypt in 1932 and my dad was born in Iran in 1932. Only one letter separated Sharif from Sharifi.
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Indoor animals never cease to amaze. Recently at a holiday party, our sons gravitated towards the mischievous Meeko, a beautiful and friendly fluffball of a cat who, you'd never guess by looking at, is currently on parole from the county D.A. Meeko suffers from a Napoleonic complex and compulsively picks fights with very very large dogs. His last fight landed him in hot water with the authorities and he is now miserably confined to the house. He wants out worse than a teenage girl at a family reunion.
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It's Cyber Monday and I'd like to know who coined that hideous term. There's nothing wrong with internet shopping, but Cyber Monday sounds like an evil robotic cyborg named Monday who sucks cash out of your wallet and leaves you empty and staring in disbelief at the confirmation emails. In response, my Cyber Monday offering is handmade. Hand-painted. Stitched by hand. And it's on sale.
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It's October, baby! My favorite time of year! This collection is twisted and twee. (Great word, 'twee', which means sweet to the point of sickening.) While I was dismembering dolls for this vignette and holding plastic baby arms over the open flame on my stove, careful not to burn myself with molten doll flesh, I had to stop and count my lucky stars. It doesn't get better than this!
My vocation requires hunting things down and then matching things together in unexpected ways. Once the objects are assembled, a new thing is created which has a little of 'me' in it.
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First of all, I kind of hate auctions. I never feel good about the amount I've paid. Did I buy because the price was good or because I got caught up competing against others? Plus, I've been burned by eBay. It's not like I ever bid $40,000 for a lock of Justin Bieber's hair (remember that?) but I did buy some antique transferware plates that, when arrived, had 'microwave safe' stamped on the back. I felt like I'd been had.
In some ways, the process of an auction can undermine any hope for a trusting relationship between buyer and seller. All focus is on a single transaction in which the seller tries to extract the highest price possible and the buyer must weigh his wants against the market forces and the seller's greed. Awful!
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I'm hanging out my sign. And going to bait my hook. Because in my world, the salmon are running. I mean to say that this is the height of the vintage season with estate sales, antique fairs, outdoor flea markets, and garage sales taking place every other day. Plus, if you have been to my shop lately, you'll notice that the pickings are getting a little thin. So I'm off to fish.
Come to think of it, stocking my shop is like fishing. It takes time for each vignette to come together. Often I'm searching for months for the right elements. Then comes the photography, which is like cleaning the fish. I'm picky about that. And finally I weigh and measure and write up descriptions. That's akin to battering the fish, frying them crispy, and serving them up with some nice sides.
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I've been skiing nearly my whole life and have never felt comfortable in the bumps. Once I took a fancy class on how to ski moguls from a French guy named Claude. He asked me what I wanted to learn. I said I want to look like Lindsey Vonn. He told me to plant my poles, point my boobs downhill, suck in my stomach, and keep my weight forward. I said, "Don't you mean boots? Point my boots downhill?" "No Madame," he said, making hand gestures to explain, "your boobs. Eez not what you Americans say? Or teats?"
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I think it's ugly. Is it the Pepto-Bismol wall color, or the hideous burnt umber tones in the wood? Either way, this composition did not start out ugly. Under the studio lights, it looked really pretty. The rods and cones of my retina told my brain that the colors complemented each other. I believed my brain and patted myself on the back for assembling a visual lovefest of vivid pastels.
But a camera lens is not an eyeball and through my photographer's camera lens, the pink wall went from a soft blush to something more like salmon. The antique tea table, which is a rich brown, turned burnt orange. And through the camera lens, I saw that the sleek decanter and cordial glasses didn't suit the polychrome plates.
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I came across this tome of wisdom recently and couldn't resist purchasing it. Written by Nicholson J. Eastman, M.D., in 1940, this fourth edition was published in 1963, the year after I was born. So I wanted to know what kind of advice my mother received from the medical community. Lousy advice, that's what she received. Poor woman!
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Photo by Renn Kuhnen.
Some collections come together in a very abstract way.
Not this one. It is an homage to the art of smoking. The accessories on their own are interesting but the poster with its smoke-obscured face is what gives the whole set its edge.
I found the poster at an estate sale of a deceased hippie who was also a hoarder. Those hoarder houses are always the best but they're very exhausting because you can't relax your radar for a second or you'll miss something amazing. (Really, hoarders are modern day archivists. They just lack the credentials and the proper facilities.)
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It was a resort called Northernaire, and it was frozen in time in the 1950s. Our family went every winter to ski, sled, and skate in woodsy Three Lakes, Wisconsin. The owner, Carl Marty, loved animals. He trained his beautiful Saint Bernard dog, Bernice, to be a nursemaid to the many orphaned creatures living there.
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Collection inspired by my love for the Little House on the Prairie books. Photo by Renn Kuhnen.
Pa Ingalls would have been an internet early adopter. He packed up Laura, Mary, Baby Carrie, Jack the bulldog, and poor patient Ma into that covered wagon more times than Steve Jobs asked us to update our iTunes account.
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