Another 'quickie' today to promote this gorgeous collage pocket mirror from Broom Closet Designs on Artfire, the current 'Crazy Train' rider.
Please check out this creative piece and others in her studio.
Now? Time to get myself busy! :)
Friday, May 29, 2009
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Ridin' on the Crazy Train
I've been selling as part of Artfire for about six weeks now. There's a lot of promotional opportunities and overall encouragement on the site and it's taking some time to get all of the possibilities firmly embedded in my brain.
Yesterday, I finally found out the scoop about 'Crazy Train'. This is a fantastic promotional tool (and I'm pulling together many, many quotes to that effect from folks who are already riding the train).
Each person on the Crazy Train will eventually be the studio/artisan at the top of the list. When that happens, everyone else on the train agrees to go to that person's studio, choose an item they really like, and promote it as much as they can throughout the two week period. Promotional outlets include: blogs, Facebook, MySpace, Kaboodle, ThisNext, Vote Handmade, Websites, Twitter, emails, yep, even good ol' word of mouth!
Now that I'm on the train, I'm doing what I promised and promoting something I think is just wonderful from Chantilly Lace (chantillylace.artfire.com). It's a beautifully crafted Victorian Rose barrette skillfully made with fabric and pearls. It would be perfect for any girl/woman, especially a bride. Check it out here:
http://www.artfire.com/modules.php?name=Shop&op=listing&product_id=169127
See the photo above and try not to fall in love!
Yesterday, I finally found out the scoop about 'Crazy Train'. This is a fantastic promotional tool (and I'm pulling together many, many quotes to that effect from folks who are already riding the train).
Each person on the Crazy Train will eventually be the studio/artisan at the top of the list. When that happens, everyone else on the train agrees to go to that person's studio, choose an item they really like, and promote it as much as they can throughout the two week period. Promotional outlets include: blogs, Facebook, MySpace, Kaboodle, ThisNext, Vote Handmade, Websites, Twitter, emails, yep, even good ol' word of mouth!
Now that I'm on the train, I'm doing what I promised and promoting something I think is just wonderful from Chantilly Lace (chantillylace.artfire.com). It's a beautifully crafted Victorian Rose barrette skillfully made with fabric and pearls. It would be perfect for any girl/woman, especially a bride. Check it out here:
http://www.artfire.com/modules.php?name=Shop&op=listing&product_id=169127
See the photo above and try not to fall in love!
Monday, May 25, 2009
What If I Didn't Write This Blog Post?
A few days ago, my niece posted a comment on Facebook about why you should never ask 'What if?'. Since then, it's been much on my mind.
Certainly popular culture, probably from time immemorial, has embraced this philosophy; presumably to keep us from agonizing and kicking ourselves over decisions we didn't make, or wrong decisions we did make.
Yet, there's another way to look at this. For instance, what if (pun sort of intended...) Gandhi hadn't said 'What if I leave behind a cozy middle-class life to fight peacefully for the freedom of my people?', or if John Lennon hadn't asked: 'What if I give up art school and be a musician?'. Imagine what the world might be like if Martin Cooper, former general manager of Motorola's Communications Systems Division hadn't asked himself: 'What if people could communicate with each other without needing cables and wires?'. There are literally endless examples of the positive power of 'What if?'
Of course, asking that same question also has limitless negative outcomes, as well. Consider those made by John Wilkes Booth, Adolf Hitler or the 9/11 terrorists?
Frankly, thinking about it for too long--like lying awake thinking about where the universe ends and what it looks like (which I often did as a child)--can as good as drive you insane. I think the reasonable approach is to make any decision using the best information you have at the time, then not dwelling on the outcome or 'what might have been'. That only leads to grave self doubt, something with which I'm very familiar and wish very much that I wasn't.
In many ways, "What if?" is the very soul of creativity.
Some theorists believe that for every possible decision, timelines split off infinitely to account for every possible situation. (For instance, the Chaos Theory that postulates that a single flutter--or lack of same--of a butterfly's wing can bring cataclysmic consequences.) That's pretty amazing to imagine and makes even the simple blink of an eye a decision of infinite possibilities. At least asking "What if?" can give us some control, if only a little, over tiny little snippets of our individual destinies. Obviously, most decisions we make are mundane and happen, it seems, automatically.
Perhaps, rather than eschewing "What if?", which can accomplish (I believe) far more good outcomes than bad, we should avoid the phrase "If only." Once any decision is made, it's almost always impossible to undo it. The trick is to deal positively with what ultimately comes to pass; hopefully making the next time you say or think (whether literally or figuratively) "What if?" the impetus for something good--maybe even magical--will result.
So..."what if I write this blog entry?" Certainly nothing earth shattering or life altering--at least as far as I can tell. But then...who knows?
But at least it'll be one less reason to sigh and say: "If only..."
Certainly popular culture, probably from time immemorial, has embraced this philosophy; presumably to keep us from agonizing and kicking ourselves over decisions we didn't make, or wrong decisions we did make.
Yet, there's another way to look at this. For instance, what if (pun sort of intended...) Gandhi hadn't said 'What if I leave behind a cozy middle-class life to fight peacefully for the freedom of my people?', or if John Lennon hadn't asked: 'What if I give up art school and be a musician?'. Imagine what the world might be like if Martin Cooper, former general manager of Motorola's Communications Systems Division hadn't asked himself: 'What if people could communicate with each other without needing cables and wires?'. There are literally endless examples of the positive power of 'What if?'
Of course, asking that same question also has limitless negative outcomes, as well. Consider those made by John Wilkes Booth, Adolf Hitler or the 9/11 terrorists?
Frankly, thinking about it for too long--like lying awake thinking about where the universe ends and what it looks like (which I often did as a child)--can as good as drive you insane. I think the reasonable approach is to make any decision using the best information you have at the time, then not dwelling on the outcome or 'what might have been'. That only leads to grave self doubt, something with which I'm very familiar and wish very much that I wasn't.
In many ways, "What if?" is the very soul of creativity.
Some theorists believe that for every possible decision, timelines split off infinitely to account for every possible situation. (For instance, the Chaos Theory that postulates that a single flutter--or lack of same--of a butterfly's wing can bring cataclysmic consequences.) That's pretty amazing to imagine and makes even the simple blink of an eye a decision of infinite possibilities. At least asking "What if?" can give us some control, if only a little, over tiny little snippets of our individual destinies. Obviously, most decisions we make are mundane and happen, it seems, automatically.
Perhaps, rather than eschewing "What if?", which can accomplish (I believe) far more good outcomes than bad, we should avoid the phrase "If only." Once any decision is made, it's almost always impossible to undo it. The trick is to deal positively with what ultimately comes to pass; hopefully making the next time you say or think (whether literally or figuratively) "What if?" the impetus for something good--maybe even magical--will result.
So..."what if I write this blog entry?" Certainly nothing earth shattering or life altering--at least as far as I can tell. But then...who knows?
But at least it'll be one less reason to sigh and say: "If only..."
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Suffering in Silence
My father was a man of few words. Even so, we (my two brothers, my sister and myself), always knew he loved us. Mother, on the other hand, seemed to have a difficult time praising us and never seemed to really appreciate when we could accomplish. That was certainly difficult, but with my father, you always knew he supported you and always had the nicest things to say (although never much), and the greatest appreciation for even the smallest creative endeavor.
A few months ago, I watched the PBS re-broadcast of "The War". I'd watched it first run and it made me sad, because it reminded me of my father. When I watched it again, it still brought on a bought of melancholy, but this time I was able to recall things from my childhood that I hadn't thought about in a long time. Things that underscored why my dad was so quiet, yet so patient and loving. He always supported my creative efforts, whether it was through writing or through visual arts. I miss him every day. Here are some of my memories.
When I was very young, probably five or six, I sat down at the breakfast table with my parents and told my father I'd had a dreamt of him the night before. Daddy never talked much, but he was curious about my dream. So I explained.
I said it was a short dream (or seemed so to a child), and that all I could remember was that he had been wading through mud with his arms up. I proceeded to put my arms up, shoulder height, bent inward at the elbow. He was carrying something, something long and thin, although I didn't know what it was and there were other men with him, whom I did not know.
Both my parents were quiet for a few moments. My dad didn't say anything, just continued with his breakfast. My mother said (and I'm reiterating as best I can remember): "Your daddy was in the war. World War II in the Pacific. He marched through a lot of swamps and things."
"You mean you really did that?" I remember asking.
"I did that sometimes." Was all my dad said.
This was the early 1960s, before the horrors of Vietnam were splashed all over television for everyone to see, every night, in full black and white (or worse, for some, color). So my subconscious wasn't picking up images I'd seen on television.
What strikes me now, and has for many, many years, is not that I had this somewhat 'paranormal dreaming experience', but that my father didn't seem to want to talk about it.
Actually, he seldom, if really ever, talked about his war experiences at all. The only other time I remember him 'talking' about it occurred, again, when I was probably about the same age.
Fascinated with a world map hanging on our hallway wall, I pointed out New Zealand (not knowing what it was called then) and asked if we could go to 'the boot'. My dad said "I was there for awhile." As usual, my mother filled in (some of) the blanks by telling me he'd been there and many other places in the Pacific during 'The War'. She pointed at some other locations on the big, colorful map, one was New Guinea, the others just looked like small dots with long names to me then.
Again, from dad, silence.
In the tiny 'entrance room' to our house there stood a small dresser with three or four drawers. I opened a drawer one day and found a stack of black and white photographs. All of them featured my father and other men, all dressed alike and doing various and sundry things that I didn't understand. A few of the photos included bare-breasted women in clothing that seemed strange to me. These were not porno photos, nobody was doing anything even remotely 'naughty', but mother caught me with them, took them away and said I shouldn't look at them again. When asked what they were, her response was: "They're your dad's pictures of 'The War'."
I don't know what happened to them, but I wish I had them. They would be of inestimable value to me today.
The reason I'm remembering these snippets of the past is because I watched Ken Burns' latest documentary 'The War'. This segment included much footage of some of the early battles in the Pacific, including Guadalcanal and, briefly at the end, Bougainville. I know my father was at both those places--not because he told me, but from his obituary.
At the end of the episode, I complained to my husband that the narrative had only mentioned Marines and Navy personnel, and I knew my dad, an Army infantryman, had been there. Mark, much read in the history of wars through the ages, said, "Remember the backup troops being flown in? That was your dad."
That's all I needed to hear.
The episode featured one small photograph of soldiers wading through mud-soaked jungles after a driving rainstorm. It so closely matched my childhood dream, it took my breath away (the clips were black and white, my dream, oddly enough, was in color). The accompanying narrative, wrenchingly descriptive, made me cry.
Daddy never talked about the war, not verbally, but there are others ways of telling stories. In this case, the stories were frightening and, ultimately, sad beyond belief.
On occasion, and more often than you might expect, my mother would wake up with bruises on her. She never complained because certainly my father, who was the kindest, gentlest man I've even known, wouldn't have done this intentionally. When asked, all mother would say is: "Your dad was dreaming about 'The War' last night." End of story.
My father used to frequently fall asleep in his recliner while watching television. Often, his body would stiffen and his arms (and sometimes his legs) would thrash out into the air, fists clenched. Sometimes he would cry out, but usually he would just utter a determined 'uh' or growling sound. This would last for probably only seconds (it seemed much longer), then, suddenly, stop, and he would awaken, or simply lay quietly napping again.
I never asked, but I assumed it was, again, 'The War'. Of course, this also left the bruises. Many of them painfully beyond the physical.
Father also sometimes went shirtless. As a farmer, this wasn't unusual and, even in Michigan, working in the fields in summer can get very hot. Never, however, did he do this around anyone but family.
On the upper right side of his back was a scar. From memory, at my best guess, it was about six inches across and probably eight or 10 inches long. There were other, smaller scars around it. For whatever reason, possibly from experiences mentioned earlier, I didn't ask dad about them. I asked mother, who said: "He was hit by a hand grenade in 'The War'." Again, end of story. At the time, this was heartbreaking enough, I didn't need to know more. Much later I discovered that one of his other scars had come from being shot. Before the incident with the hand grenade.
Years later, more than 20 years after his death, my mother found a copy of a diary he'd be given before he'd been shipped overseas. Sadly, not only was dad a man of few verbal words, he wrote very little, as well. There were maybe one dozen sentences or less in the entire diary. Only one, very short, sentence, stood out.
"I had malaria, but I'm better now."
Today I own one of his Purple Hearts. The ribbon is torn and, if touched, would probably as good as disintegrate. I keep it safe in its original box, but look at it from time to time to remind me of too many things to list. I also have his sharpshooter's medal and another 'pin' that I'm not sure about. From his obituary, I learned he earned three bronze stars.
Don't have any of those.
Dad was 28 when the war began and, prior to that had lived what must have been a relatively quiet life working in Bay City at Defoe's shipyard and helping my grandfather on the farm (which he later took over). The dichotomy of that life and life in 'The War' must have been horrifying to a man with only an eighth grade education.
From what I've heard, especially over the last decade, many, many veterans of 'The War' find it difficult to talk about. Thankfully, some of them can, and did, and we have the records, written or otherwise, to get the bigger picture. (History textbooks, by and large, are filled with jargonistic bullshit in which only names and dates are of any use).
Two of my uncles also served in 'The War', my maternal uncle in Europe and my father's brother, to my knowledge, never went overseas. Mother says my grandmother, during 'The War', once went to a movie and in one of the pre-feature newsreels, saw my uncle, whom she hadn't heard from in many months. You can imagine the confusing jumble of emotions: joy, sadness and melancholy, that must have ensued. Since dad's death, I've found myself watching the scant old footage of the war looking for his face (even in movies, which I know is silly, but I still do it, anyway). I can't tell you what my reaction would be if I did see him. Maybe I do it just to 'see him' again. I don't know.
Everyone who took part in 'The War' (the actual one, not the documentary) were, and are heroes. As one vet put it last night 'It wasn't a good war, it was a necessary war.'
But dad never thought himself a hero, or acted as though he should be treated as one.
But he was, and always shall be, my greatest hero.
My views on 'God' are skeptical at best. If the idea of a 'fair and just God' are true, then why has there been so much suffering--and by so many good, decent people? So many of them have suffered in silence.
That being said, if there is a God, I feel it's only fair to thank him/her for making sure my father survived 'The War' when so many thousands did not. After all, I had the best dad in the world.
A few months ago, I watched the PBS re-broadcast of "The War". I'd watched it first run and it made me sad, because it reminded me of my father. When I watched it again, it still brought on a bought of melancholy, but this time I was able to recall things from my childhood that I hadn't thought about in a long time. Things that underscored why my dad was so quiet, yet so patient and loving. He always supported my creative efforts, whether it was through writing or through visual arts. I miss him every day. Here are some of my memories.
When I was very young, probably five or six, I sat down at the breakfast table with my parents and told my father I'd had a dreamt of him the night before. Daddy never talked much, but he was curious about my dream. So I explained.
I said it was a short dream (or seemed so to a child), and that all I could remember was that he had been wading through mud with his arms up. I proceeded to put my arms up, shoulder height, bent inward at the elbow. He was carrying something, something long and thin, although I didn't know what it was and there were other men with him, whom I did not know.
Both my parents were quiet for a few moments. My dad didn't say anything, just continued with his breakfast. My mother said (and I'm reiterating as best I can remember): "Your daddy was in the war. World War II in the Pacific. He marched through a lot of swamps and things."
"You mean you really did that?" I remember asking.
"I did that sometimes." Was all my dad said.
This was the early 1960s, before the horrors of Vietnam were splashed all over television for everyone to see, every night, in full black and white (or worse, for some, color). So my subconscious wasn't picking up images I'd seen on television.
What strikes me now, and has for many, many years, is not that I had this somewhat 'paranormal dreaming experience', but that my father didn't seem to want to talk about it.
Actually, he seldom, if really ever, talked about his war experiences at all. The only other time I remember him 'talking' about it occurred, again, when I was probably about the same age.
Fascinated with a world map hanging on our hallway wall, I pointed out New Zealand (not knowing what it was called then) and asked if we could go to 'the boot'. My dad said "I was there for awhile." As usual, my mother filled in (some of) the blanks by telling me he'd been there and many other places in the Pacific during 'The War'. She pointed at some other locations on the big, colorful map, one was New Guinea, the others just looked like small dots with long names to me then.
Again, from dad, silence.
In the tiny 'entrance room' to our house there stood a small dresser with three or four drawers. I opened a drawer one day and found a stack of black and white photographs. All of them featured my father and other men, all dressed alike and doing various and sundry things that I didn't understand. A few of the photos included bare-breasted women in clothing that seemed strange to me. These were not porno photos, nobody was doing anything even remotely 'naughty', but mother caught me with them, took them away and said I shouldn't look at them again. When asked what they were, her response was: "They're your dad's pictures of 'The War'."
I don't know what happened to them, but I wish I had them. They would be of inestimable value to me today.
The reason I'm remembering these snippets of the past is because I watched Ken Burns' latest documentary 'The War'. This segment included much footage of some of the early battles in the Pacific, including Guadalcanal and, briefly at the end, Bougainville. I know my father was at both those places--not because he told me, but from his obituary.
At the end of the episode, I complained to my husband that the narrative had only mentioned Marines and Navy personnel, and I knew my dad, an Army infantryman, had been there. Mark, much read in the history of wars through the ages, said, "Remember the backup troops being flown in? That was your dad."
That's all I needed to hear.
The episode featured one small photograph of soldiers wading through mud-soaked jungles after a driving rainstorm. It so closely matched my childhood dream, it took my breath away (the clips were black and white, my dream, oddly enough, was in color). The accompanying narrative, wrenchingly descriptive, made me cry.
Daddy never talked about the war, not verbally, but there are others ways of telling stories. In this case, the stories were frightening and, ultimately, sad beyond belief.
On occasion, and more often than you might expect, my mother would wake up with bruises on her. She never complained because certainly my father, who was the kindest, gentlest man I've even known, wouldn't have done this intentionally. When asked, all mother would say is: "Your dad was dreaming about 'The War' last night." End of story.
My father used to frequently fall asleep in his recliner while watching television. Often, his body would stiffen and his arms (and sometimes his legs) would thrash out into the air, fists clenched. Sometimes he would cry out, but usually he would just utter a determined 'uh' or growling sound. This would last for probably only seconds (it seemed much longer), then, suddenly, stop, and he would awaken, or simply lay quietly napping again.
I never asked, but I assumed it was, again, 'The War'. Of course, this also left the bruises. Many of them painfully beyond the physical.
Father also sometimes went shirtless. As a farmer, this wasn't unusual and, even in Michigan, working in the fields in summer can get very hot. Never, however, did he do this around anyone but family.
On the upper right side of his back was a scar. From memory, at my best guess, it was about six inches across and probably eight or 10 inches long. There were other, smaller scars around it. For whatever reason, possibly from experiences mentioned earlier, I didn't ask dad about them. I asked mother, who said: "He was hit by a hand grenade in 'The War'." Again, end of story. At the time, this was heartbreaking enough, I didn't need to know more. Much later I discovered that one of his other scars had come from being shot. Before the incident with the hand grenade.
Years later, more than 20 years after his death, my mother found a copy of a diary he'd be given before he'd been shipped overseas. Sadly, not only was dad a man of few verbal words, he wrote very little, as well. There were maybe one dozen sentences or less in the entire diary. Only one, very short, sentence, stood out.
"I had malaria, but I'm better now."
Today I own one of his Purple Hearts. The ribbon is torn and, if touched, would probably as good as disintegrate. I keep it safe in its original box, but look at it from time to time to remind me of too many things to list. I also have his sharpshooter's medal and another 'pin' that I'm not sure about. From his obituary, I learned he earned three bronze stars.
Don't have any of those.
Dad was 28 when the war began and, prior to that had lived what must have been a relatively quiet life working in Bay City at Defoe's shipyard and helping my grandfather on the farm (which he later took over). The dichotomy of that life and life in 'The War' must have been horrifying to a man with only an eighth grade education.
From what I've heard, especially over the last decade, many, many veterans of 'The War' find it difficult to talk about. Thankfully, some of them can, and did, and we have the records, written or otherwise, to get the bigger picture. (History textbooks, by and large, are filled with jargonistic bullshit in which only names and dates are of any use).
Two of my uncles also served in 'The War', my maternal uncle in Europe and my father's brother, to my knowledge, never went overseas. Mother says my grandmother, during 'The War', once went to a movie and in one of the pre-feature newsreels, saw my uncle, whom she hadn't heard from in many months. You can imagine the confusing jumble of emotions: joy, sadness and melancholy, that must have ensued. Since dad's death, I've found myself watching the scant old footage of the war looking for his face (even in movies, which I know is silly, but I still do it, anyway). I can't tell you what my reaction would be if I did see him. Maybe I do it just to 'see him' again. I don't know.
Everyone who took part in 'The War' (the actual one, not the documentary) were, and are heroes. As one vet put it last night 'It wasn't a good war, it was a necessary war.'
But dad never thought himself a hero, or acted as though he should be treated as one.
But he was, and always shall be, my greatest hero.
My views on 'God' are skeptical at best. If the idea of a 'fair and just God' are true, then why has there been so much suffering--and by so many good, decent people? So many of them have suffered in silence.
That being said, if there is a God, I feel it's only fair to thank him/her for making sure my father survived 'The War' when so many thousands did not. After all, I had the best dad in the world.
Why Handmade is Better Than Mass Produced
I'm sure I don't have to go into too much detail about why a handmade item is so much better than going to say, Sears or Target, et al, and purchasing what everyone else is buying. But here goes, anyway.
Like most people, I used to go to a local department store (or, more recently, to my local PC upstairs) to buy whatever I like, needed or that I felt compelled to buy due to an unfortunate lack of respect for saving money.
That was then. A few years ago I started making my own jewelry. Why? Because I looked and looked for a unique, inexpensive eyeglass chain (I remove my glasses for reading, unlike every other middle-aged person I know!). I bought one on eBay. It was nice, but it didn't hold up well. It's nearly impossible to find such things in most department stores, so my only recourse was to make it myself. I thought "how hard can it be?"
Well, it's not 'difficult', but it is fascinating and replete with many little tips and tricks you need to get used to. One thing lead to another and, before long, I'd gotten the 'bug' and had amassed many different beads, findings, stones--you name it! Magpies never were so quick to pick up bright, shiny colorful objects.
So, I went from eyeglass chains to bracelets and on up the line. From the beginning people were complimenting my work and I started to sell on a fairly regular basis; even a local gallery offered to sell and display my pieces. It was through this process that I learned the value of a handmade item. It's more than a 'craft', more than a 'hobby', it a way of expressing my somewhat stifled creativity and, maybe, giving someone the opportunity to own a singular piece of art.
Yes, ART. Lots of folks say/think "Oh, I can do that!" But then they don't do it. A lot more than stringing a few beads on a wire or chain goes into every piece I make (and, I'm sure, other artists will say the same of their work, no matter what the medium). There's planning, costing, starting, going back and redoing...it's not as simple as it looks. But it is very satisfying.
Think of it this way: Would you rather spend money on something that the person behind you in the checkout could also have? Or hundreds of other people within a 50 mile radius? Or would you rather own a unique object, unlike any other, that one person spent a lot of time (and money, sometimes)--and by that I mean time planning, creating, and putting it all together-- making it ready for you.
I know which choice I'd make.
At this point, I've never EVER made the same piece of jewelry twice. I would, if asked, make matching items. Also, because I'm a terrible perfectionist (is that an oxymoron?), I often fuss and fuss over every single bead or component, wanting to make it the best I can. Let's face it, I AM my toughest critic!
Bottom line? Buy handmade when you have the choice. It helps spread the spirit of creativity and gives you the satisfaction of being the owner of a lovely, one-of-a-kind piece. There are many places online to find these treasures, but a good place to start is: http://SuzanneStevens.artfire.com
Or go directly to http://artfire.com
While you're there, be sure to check out all the other beautiful work by artisans in many media.
Like most people, I used to go to a local department store (or, more recently, to my local PC upstairs) to buy whatever I like, needed or that I felt compelled to buy due to an unfortunate lack of respect for saving money.
That was then. A few years ago I started making my own jewelry. Why? Because I looked and looked for a unique, inexpensive eyeglass chain (I remove my glasses for reading, unlike every other middle-aged person I know!). I bought one on eBay. It was nice, but it didn't hold up well. It's nearly impossible to find such things in most department stores, so my only recourse was to make it myself. I thought "how hard can it be?"
Well, it's not 'difficult', but it is fascinating and replete with many little tips and tricks you need to get used to. One thing lead to another and, before long, I'd gotten the 'bug' and had amassed many different beads, findings, stones--you name it! Magpies never were so quick to pick up bright, shiny colorful objects.
So, I went from eyeglass chains to bracelets and on up the line. From the beginning people were complimenting my work and I started to sell on a fairly regular basis; even a local gallery offered to sell and display my pieces. It was through this process that I learned the value of a handmade item. It's more than a 'craft', more than a 'hobby', it a way of expressing my somewhat stifled creativity and, maybe, giving someone the opportunity to own a singular piece of art.
Yes, ART. Lots of folks say/think "Oh, I can do that!" But then they don't do it. A lot more than stringing a few beads on a wire or chain goes into every piece I make (and, I'm sure, other artists will say the same of their work, no matter what the medium). There's planning, costing, starting, going back and redoing...it's not as simple as it looks. But it is very satisfying.
Think of it this way: Would you rather spend money on something that the person behind you in the checkout could also have? Or hundreds of other people within a 50 mile radius? Or would you rather own a unique object, unlike any other, that one person spent a lot of time (and money, sometimes)--and by that I mean time planning, creating, and putting it all together-- making it ready for you.
I know which choice I'd make.
At this point, I've never EVER made the same piece of jewelry twice. I would, if asked, make matching items. Also, because I'm a terrible perfectionist (is that an oxymoron?), I often fuss and fuss over every single bead or component, wanting to make it the best I can. Let's face it, I AM my toughest critic!
Bottom line? Buy handmade when you have the choice. It helps spread the spirit of creativity and gives you the satisfaction of being the owner of a lovely, one-of-a-kind piece. There are many places online to find these treasures, but a good place to start is: http://SuzanneStevens.artfire.com
Or go directly to http://artfire.com
While you're there, be sure to check out all the other beautiful work by artisans in many media.
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