Left-handed Scissors in a Right-handed World

In my youth in the 1950s, wooden elementary school chairs had built-in armrests, which were uniformly on the right side. This left my scrawny little arm dangling off precariously, as my left hand strained in the effort to execute the lovely cursive writing that I strove for.

When I was a high school freshman in 1960, Home Economics was a required course for girls and we had to make a dress during that first semester; among learning various other skills in preparation for eventually becoming an ideal wife and homemaker. Little did anyone imagine a future where those concepts would have such varied meaning as they do today! Meanwhile, in that era, “young ladies” did imagine that domestic bliss was likely related to their grade in Home Economics.

In those days, McCall’s and Butterick patterns were “a la mode,” and we all scrambled to find the easiest to execute; most of us never having sewn a stitch in our lives. I can only imagine the frustration of our teacher, who was likely at her wit’s end overseeing a bunch of teenagers distracted by gossip and daydreaming of their latest crushes, while only cursorily interested in the task at hand.

Scissors were provided for this endeavor, however exclusively right-handed ones. In fact, I had no awareness that left-handed ones existed! Needless to say, by the end of the sixty minute class, my hand was sore and developing what was to be a semester-long blister. I wondered that no one complained about the torturous aspect of this pattern-cutting, not realizing theirs’ comfortably conformed to the contours of their predominantly right hands.

As an adult, it was a great delight to discover that there were indeed scissors designed for the few of us left-handers [4% of the population at that time]. And a good thing that was, as my art form is a sort of elaborate collage of handmade paper, fabric, lace, trims, leather, feathers, fur, shells, beads, vintage photos: recycled objects that are cut (with scissors!) and glued or sewn onto my canvases. Making costumes of these items is also one of my artistic expressions.

Inspiration

At ten years old, blunt-edged scissors were all we had for cutting yarn to make “god’s-eye” Christmas tree ornaments; perhaps because we kids couldn’t be trusted with sharper ones during our more rambunctious moments.

This took place at the craft table of our most intriguing neighbors, the Fink family. Though just three doors away from our home, they had mid-century (it was the mid-century!) modern décor, while we had an eclectic mix of antiques from various periods. Meddie and Dutch Fink, parents to three of our friends, were bohemians who listened to jazz LPs, as opposed to my parents preference for Perry Como and Doris Day. They also allowed their oldest daughter, my age, to read the banned and scandalous Peyton Place. I could not have been more impressed, as my own mother hid her copy from me! Further, the Fink kids called their parents by their first names! When I tried that out on my mother, she looked as though I’d slapped her in the face.

My passion for arts and crafts began at an early age, inspired by the Finks, but mainly by my father, who was an antiques dealer and master-craftsman. He instilled in his eight children a deep and abiding appreciation for the grain in wood, intricacies of hand carvings, the patina on various metal objects, all things vintage. He taught us to see the sophistication of fine craftsmanship, how to understand design elements, view and assess paintings, how to value the history these things bestowed. In other words, he taught us to see and feel beauty.

This led to lifelong collecting for me and for most of my siblings. We learned to salvage damaged vintage objects by restoring them or turning them into art. By rescuing, redeeming, reviving, restoring, refurbishing lost things, we were actually early recyclers.

Without a treasure trove of interesting objects to draw from, I could not create my artwork. Without my father’s influence, I doubt that I could make the necessary connections between things that are now integrated into my collages and installations.

One day as a young woman, my father presented me with an old trunk he found at the Pasadena flea market, one of his favorite haunts. It was brimming with heaps of beautiful but tattered beaded fabric, that upon inspection proved to be an elaborate gown. And underneath was a framed photo of (purportedly) the first Rose Bowl Queen, Hallie Woods, from 1906.

As I used scissors to delicately cut usable sections of beading from the shredded garment, the intricacy with which those beads were strung together made me think of the world as a massive interwoven tapestry from which one pulled threat could unravel the whole, or at least disrupt its mystery cloaked in enigma, hidden in an inscrutable paradox… 

And so bits of the Rose Bowl Queen’s disintegrated dress did not fade into oblivion, but found their way into my artwork; her story carried a little forward in the telling.

Vintage clothing is another passion of mine, being the romantic that I am, but their condition is often compromised by the wear and tear of the ages. So I taught myself to do very fine hand-stitched repairs. When the fabrics are too delicate for mending, I find creative alternatives, like adding pieces to the original, making two pieces into one, or using sections to embellish costumes. Wedding dresses particularly lend themselves to becoming, with a little dye and inventive alterations, fabulous princess costumes or ball gowns.

One of the joys of vintage and handmade clothes is their originality and how they are a unique expression of oneself. Also, for anyone on a budget, a fabulous wardrobe can be had for a fraction the cost of new clothing. Besides, I love the feeling of perpetually playing “dress up” like I did as a child!

In Our Father’s Footsteps

One of my brothers amassed piles of wood for the beauty of their grains, as our father did during his lifetime, that came into brilliant use when he completely renovated a tear-down Arts and Crafts house in Northern California. He rebuilt every cabinet, windowsill, and door; he even made a mission-style table for his dining room. He foraged far and wide for stained-glass windows, tiles, and hardware from that period, until every detail was perfect. The end result is a true work of art.

Another brother, while spending a year in Mallorca, discovered a finca ruin and rescued an unknown family’s ephemera left behind to deteriorate in the elements, turning the decades old letters and photos into amazing collage art. His artwork was displayed in his stunning studio until he married and had two sons, and his place was dismantled in favor of family demands…another kind of art, one might say.

Rosary Temptation 

Road trips have been a rich source of finding material for my collages and installations. I once found the sun-bleached bones of an entire cow in a meadow, which my husband and I loaded into our van to use in various art projects. I’d venture to say that it’s a rare man who indulges his wife in this manner!

On these trips, we never bypassed an antiques or thrift shop without stopping. And there was always some treasure to be found. It’s a gift to each other that we share this passion and a “glue” of our relationship, I’m certain.

We both love the obscure cemeteries scattered across the back roads of the Western States, as subjects for photo shoots. We once happened onto a remote, seemingly abandoned, Catholic Church of old hacienda style, that felt like a relic from a 1950s Western. It was on of stretch of dry, dusty desert; within fifty miles of nothing in either direction. Adjoining was a cemetery with tombstones dating back before 1940.

In its foreground were the grander tombs of apparently prominent families, such as the marble cross engraved for Maria Rosa Consuela Sanchez, esposa y mama amada, protegido por la Bendita Virgen. Her last flowers had long since withered and dispersed in the desert’s merciless winds, but a few faded resin ones struggled to keep up appearances against the brutal sun that beat everything into submission.

On Maria’s headstone rested beautiful old rosary beads with a tarnished silver cross. Since it was obviously long abandoned, I was tempted to take it to enshrine in one of my retablo-like installations, but some obscure superstition forbade me.

As I wandered through the modest graveyard, the lesser status of the deceased was evident in upright headstones giving way to flat ones engraved with names and dates only. These diminished further, becoming humble wooden crosses with primitively carved names.

On the very outskirts, the only grave markers were crosses fashioned from rusty rebar held together with wire, driven into the remorseless ground and overgrown with whatever weeds were hardy enough to withstand the harsh elements. This sight made me unbearably sad, as though these buried did not even merit the use of wood to mark their graves, nor warrant the mention of their names. Their only witness was the relentless winds blown across their shallow graves.

As I turned back in the direction of our van, I caught a glimpse of something nearly invisible in the tangle of weeds at my feet. It was a small rebar cross, only six inches high and askew, as though not important enough to erect straight into the ground. In my minds eye, this marked the death of a baby just not meant for this harsh life. I tried to straighten the cross, such as it was, but it was firmly embedded at its crooked angle in the hardened earth.

To this day, that tiny cross haunts me. It’s like the remnants of a dream that cannot be recalled, but that whispered a message to the heart. It is as though that little unknown soul got somehow mixed up with my own…

Mentor, Roberta Griffin, Interior Decorator

For decades my father’s shop was next to the elegant one of Roberta Griffin, Interior Decorator. She was, in fact, the landlady to my Daddy. As a teenager, I worked for her part-time after school. My job was to take phone messages, to greet the rare customer who came into the store, to dust and tidy up. My principle task was to put away the fabric samples Mrs. Griffin brought back from her in-home consultations with clients.

Those large sample books were wondrous, filled with swatches of luxurious fabrics of everything from lush velvets to cheery chintzes. I lusted after them all, and vowed to have a houseful of gorgeous upholstered furniture and extravagant drapes when I grew up.

Mrs. Griffin (we never addressed adults by their first names!) taught me much about fine furnishings and the importance of their arrangement. She even let me try my hand at doing her window displays, which involved the artful placement of vases and other objects on draped fabrics.

This experience certainly influenced my artwork. I was so enamored of fabric, the feeling of it and the way it drapes, that I could never decide on just a few when there are so many. So this evolved into my use of bits of all sorts of fabric in my work.

But the beginning of my love affair with fabric went further back. When I was eight and my little sisters were four and two, our grandmother sent us matching Easter dresses. They were a simple baby-doll style of polished cotton in pale buttery yellow, lighter than the shade of a duckling’s fluff. But the magic was in the pinafores that went over the dresses. They were as light as air in the palest gray voile, with delicate cream-colored lace trim. The whole affect was so delicious I could almost taste it. I felt like a princess, or rather a queen lording it over my princess sisters.

Thrilling uses for Vintage Items

Because we had an elderberry tree in our front yard and a large earthenware crock in the kitchen, I hatched the idea to make elderberry wine one summer vacation when in high school. My mother had an early edition of The Joy of Cooking, and I believe that’s where I found the basic old-school recipe, involving little else than cheesecloth.

As fate would have it, these simple elements came together and did, in fact, turn those humble berries into a thick, dark wine that was surprisingly potent. My friends and I got quite tippy on just one glass, though I don’t know if it was more the idea of consuming an alcoholic beverage or the actual effect of it. We danced around in Bacchanalian glee for at least an hour before collapsing into a stupor.

Again, this illustrates the pleasures of having vintage items, such as a crock and retro cookbook—oh, and the elderberries came in handy too. Years later, I made my only other attempt at winemaking—this time with strawberries--which bypassed being wine and turned straight to vinegar. I never did find a use for that much strawberry vinegar.

Another Desert Cemetery

The Nazca Desert in Peru, known for the mysterious Nazca Lines, provided a wealth of haunting photos of mummified bodies attempting to escape their purgatory-like graves, which grave-robbers had long ago ransacked, leaving masses of long black hair and stray bones strewn across the wayward sands.

The mummies appeared as though pushing and pulling themselves out of the sandy earth, like a scene from the Living Dead. Prior to my trip, I wasn’t aware of mummification in civilizations other than Egyptian.

Inspired Festivities

Of course, this mad collecting lends itself to costume parties of all sorts. One theme has been our annual Dickens Christmas party; replete with Victorian gowns, tuxedos and top hats. Guests bring fancy feast dishes, including a friend who provides a suckling pig donning a garland of flowers and an apple in its mouth. Performance artists--from opera singers to violin concertos to poetry recitations--help to create utter magic.

To elaborate on the range of these parties would exceed the allotted length of this story, so suffice it to say that even one item, such as an Aladdin-style lamp, has sparked the idea of an Arabian Nights party with fabulous costumes, exotic food, sitar music, belly-dancing, and general sensuality.

“Here let us feast, and to the feast be joined discourse, the sweeter banquet of the mind.”

~Homer~

Time in a Bottle

Something I’ve become keenly aware of with age, is that for the multitude of gifts technology bestows, time is often lost to us. Time to slow down and lounge, time to handwrite a letter rather than email one. Time to ponder over a book and not rush through it. Time to romance oneself and others…

I may be hopelessly old-fashioned, but romance seems all but lost in our rush through life. Romantic expression, which can be as simple as greeting strangers with at least a nod or a smile, some small recognition of the shared mystery of our existence, enriches us in ways that can blossom before our very eyes into grander romantic gestures--like sending anonymous love notes, showering someone with rose petals, doing an unexpected chore for an overworked friend. Or lighting a candle for oneself in celebration of just being alive.

But to carry this further, for anyone interested in such matters, when dining in a fine restaurant, part of the experience is to relish the overall atmosphere, and not to be seated next to people dressed in workout clothes, tee shirts, sneakers without socks, baggy shorts, etc.

There was a time when basic human dignity dictated presenting ourselves in our best light. A time when no one would dream of being seen without a Sunday hat and white gloves. While that might be too much for today’s busy world, must we accept comfort and casual above all, at the expense of dressing up at least a little?

Antiques can remind of us that the world wasn’t always in such a rush. The objects themselves speak of languid motion: fountain pens, embossed and engraved books, elegant fanciful clothes. Could there be lessons for us in these relics from the past?

After all, we cannot trap time in a bottle…

Collecting versus Hoarding

To me the difference is blatantly clear—one is junk or trash and the other is treasure! Of course, I realize that may be open to interpretation. But another determining factor could be the treatment of belongings: are they in a disheveled heap or are they cared for, respectfully treated, thoughtfully displayed? But mainly, do they provide joy?

I sense we’re in a period of shame over having possessions, particularly of collecting things. Minimalism is in vogue; the idea that “less is more” is prevalent. Gurus preach abhorrence of clutter and how to get rid of things, and that may be helpful depending on ones goal. The implication is that it’s somehow more spiritual to have less and that ravishing beauty for beauty’s sake is suspect. That to love an object for its history, its craftsmanship, its pure beauty, is somehow less spiritual than to shun these manifestations of the physical world.

For those who appreciate clear spaces and simplicity, minimalism makes sense. But so often the excuse is that houses and apartments too small for things, though even the tiniest room can accommodate some beautiful, sensual objects. Or that it’s too much to take care of in today’s hectic world. But isn’t it worth caring for what you love and what brings you joy?

However, minimalism is a matter of fashion, and things go in and out of fashion over time; so it will not always be in favor.

And so I’m at home in my somewhat messy coziness, surrounded by eclectic, elegant vintage pieces, that hold almost alchemical meaning in their very existence. Persian rugs, china teacups, Victorian jewelry, Asian carvings, and most profoundly old books, speak to me of their rich history and keep me company on dark winter nights…

“Objects are what matter. Only they carry the evidence that throughout the centuries something happened among human beings.”

~Claude Lévi-Strauss~ 

Dedication

As much as I write this is for a contest, it is also an expression of myself for myself, and for my beloved siblings who are told “less is more,” when in fact “more is more.”

Especially it is dedicated to my beautiful sister Barbara, who though she suffers with Parkinson’s disease, carries a bag of magic tricks and games wherever she goes--to the wonder and amusement of her nieces, nephews, and grandchildren. She is ever equipped to send them on a scavenger hunt, to follow a treasure map, to play badminton, to dress up as cowboys and cowgirls (yes, she packs costumes as well!).

In the beautiful calligraphy that she still attempts to execute in spite of Parkinson’s tremor, Barbara made me a little wooden plaque that declares “More is More,” which I keep on my desk as a symbol of our family’s passion for collecting, and as a constant reminder of my beloved sister.

So this is my homage to all who make up this fantastical life: artists, musicians, writers, designers, scientists, doctors, philosophers, chefs, therapists, inventors, engineers. Those creative minds and spirits in all fields, that together make this crazy, brilliant world go ‘round. And a tribute to all the incredible styles: Primitive, Tribal, Egyptian, Victorian, Art Nouveau, Art Deco, Arts and Crafts, Mid-Century; architecture from Gaudi to Gehry; all working their magic on the vast, magnificent tapestry woven with the intricate threads we each contribute.

The spirits of the dead dwell in what they’ve left behind: books, photos, letters, diaries, paintings, music, jewelry, clothes. It is for us to let them travel across the playground of our imagination, living on through what we choose to enshrine.

“We have art so as not to despair.” (to paraphrase)

~Friedrich Nietzsche~

In the haunting hour of the soul, when the mind runs rampant with grotesque thoughts of fear and failure, and wrestles the demons of self-doubt, I sometimes envision huge scissors slashing through the cords that bind me, turning those cords into colorful ribbons that float off into the distance and I am free.

And so my trusty left-handed scissors, one of my cherished tools, has made possible the recycling of treasures, turning them into dreams of the past and inspiration for the future.

“Through love, all pain becomes medicine.”

~Rumi~