He is number 3 On our 100 things to draw when you are bored (2013) list.

You know why these hipsters don’t care about Mondays?  Me either. ..I suspect that it is because that is soooo 2007. In any case, they are number 63 from the list.

IF you are less annoying  than the hipsters and less angry than the sandwich then be sure and check back later this week for some blog-action!

Yes, this is me in 1977, and yes, you’re jealous of my dress.

Within months, I had the original Kenner action figures, the ones with the vinyl capes and weak-tipped lights sabers built into their arms.  After that, I had fighters, and in 1978, the Death Star station, the one with the trap door, the foam garbage, and the extending bridge.  Years later, when I was 9, Kim Duncan and I were playing with the Death Star on my living room floor when my dog walked up and unceremoniously barfed in her lap.  Luke himself could not have made a more direct hit.

When I met my husband, I was about to turn 22.  It wasn’t long before I discovered that he was a Star Wars geek, too.  Growing up, he didn’t earn money for doing chores; he earned Star Wars figures.  Although that was not the precise moment I knew that our souls had been cruelly severed at birth, it might as well have been.

My husband, Jason, opening a Star Wars toy in 1981

Because he asked for Star Wars toys every single year, for every single occasion, Jason had things I’d only dreamed of owning: Cloud City, Dagobah, the cantina, the Rebel Transport, Hoth.  Better still, his parents still had them.  Like, ALL of them.  When I flew to California to meet his family for the first time, I had not been inside the house for five minutes before I demanded to see the goods.  I can’t imagine what my future in-laws thought of this brash girl who marched in, shook hands, took the tour, and started bellowing orders, but they didn’t ask me to find a hotel, so that’s something.  They also took this picture.

When George Lucas re-released the movies, Jason and I were there, in line for the midnight showing at the Cheri Theater in Boston, with people dressed in costumes.  Years later, we watched Episodes 1, 2, and 3, faithfully, even when they made us cringe.  We showed Episode 4 to our son long before he was old enough to understand it.  I don’t know that he caught the fever, but he at least caught the cold, because when he was five, he asked to be a Jawa for Halloween.  We spent days working on the costume – both of us.  I even sewed.

For all these reasons and dozens more, I was beside myself when one of my favorite customers contacted me about a Star Wars commission.  She wanted something that could involve lots of characters, and as odd as it may sound, I came up with . . . egg cups.  No really.

Here’s the picture I sent her earlier this week:

This is going to be so much fun I can’t stand it.  I might have to walk up and barf on a dog.

Yes, it’s #21: Death’s New Job.  Really, though, after a day or two, all he has to do is cross out “gold” and write “soul,” and he’ll be right back in the old line of work.

*Insert clever segue that I am too tired to write for you because it is four in the morning*

Every year when the trees begin to bloom, my poor, sweet husband starts to look as if I might be using his face for a punching bag.  I keep begging him to see an allergist, and he keeps changing the subject, as a result of which, he looks like this, except with better hair.  And some nifty glasses.  And no face mask.  So . . . really, he doesn’t look much like this at all, except around the eyes.  Around the eyes, my husband is twinsies with #66: Allergic to Everything:

Check back tomorrow and Friday for mad bloggings!

I want to tell you this story because I want to inspire you, move you, plant a tiny seed in the garden of your mind – except let me establish right now I am not weeding your brain.  I mean, your brain is fine, but weeding is evil.

Here’s the story, which is not.

You know those memes that are always on Facebook, the ones about living your dreams, following your passion, being the world you want to see in loose change?  Nine years ago, I did that, or at least some of that, resigning from my six-figure salary in order to have three nickels, a happy heart, and a peaceful soul.  And I do.

I now work as an artist.  I want to repeat that: I WORK as an artist.  You would think, in that case, that I would follow some other memes that you see on Facebook, like the ones about buying art and supporting artists.  Yet those memes go right by me – in one eye, and out a kidney.

As a matter of course, I don’t “buy art.”  I buy . . . food.   I buy postage stamps.  I buy wrapping paper from the stupid fundraiser catalog that my kid brings home from school.   Art doesn’t factor into my budget unless I’m giving a gift – or at least, I didn’t think it did.  But then.

Last autumn, my dishes started falling apart, almost as if their “use by” date had arrived in the night.  They cracked.  We sighed.  They chipped.  We glued.  When my mother offered to rescue us by buying us new dishes for Christmas, we gratefully accepted.  We browsed the 25 patterns offered by a national manufacturer and picked one.  Then we got the news: Back ordered.

Since I didn’t want any of the 24 remaining patterns, I told my mom we’d wait.  And we waited.  And while we waited, an artist friend of mine named Michelle posted a picture of some of her pottery on Facebook.  Like her page, win the cups – that sort of thing.  I saw the picture once, possibly twice.  Nothing.  No light bulbs.  No connections.  Nothing.  Weeks went by.  The contest was ending when something finally stirred inside my thick skull.  Dishes.  I need dishes.  I’m not getting any dishes the usual way.  Michelle makes dishes the more awesome way.  Her dishes are gorgeous.  Dishes are art.  Holy crap, I CAN SUPPORT AN ARTIST.

I wrote to Michelle to see if she was interested in the project, and then I wrote to my mom to see if she would support the project, taking the money she would have given to the large company and redirecting it to Michelle.  I won’t lie: Mom was nervous.  I reassured her that Michelle has been doing pottery for 20 years, that my friend Sarah has some cups from Michelle, that Sarah loves them.  After a short period of deliberation, Mom sent us a check.  Merry Christmas, baby.  I was getting dishes made by hand by an artist – but I didn’t even know yet what that meant.  I didn’t know how that would feel.

To get started, Michelle asked for a deposit to get clay, which she buys locally out in Massachusetts.  After sending us options for the glaze, she started a simple conversation with me, asking about the foods we most often put in our bowls.  Uhhhh . . . what?  Dishes designed for us, for the stuff we like to eat?  Is that even legal for a member of the middle class?  I told her we’re very big into chilis and soups and stews,  even in summer, when I make giant bowls of gazpacho and mozzarella salad with grape tomatoes and fresh basil.  You know what else I told her?  No coffee cups.  Screw coffee cups.  We don’t drink coffee, and I hate giving up shelf space for coffee cups I don’t want and won’t use.

She said, “No problem.”

She picked a bowl design that would work for us, and she didn’t make us a single cup.  While she worked, she posted pictures on Facebook of my dishes drying – MY dishes, each one of them hand thrown.

Her hands to our mouths.  For me, these pictures had a quality of unreality about it, a quality of fantasy, like someone was going to come in and say, “Just kidding, little lady!  There are 25 patterns in all the world.  Go back and pick another one.”

Instead, things moved forward.  Michelle started putting our dishes into the kiln, and she stopped posting pictures.  She didn’t want me to see before I could see them, hold them in my own hands – and that brought us to the shipping.  The shipping scared the hell out of me.  Mom paid for the dishes, but what about the shipping?  I was imagining that it would cost $100, $150 – something horrific.  Then Michelle told me: $35.  I almost cried.

She shipped the dishes last Friday.  We got them Wednesday afternoon, and we ate from them Wednesday night.  I love these dishes.  I love them almost like parts of my own body.  The bowls are deep and beautifully shaped.  The plates are the perfect size, making reasonable portions look kingly.  The glaze is mesmerizing.  They are ours.  We will never get “tired” or “bored” of these dishes.  Each one is different and unique, and what’s more, they aren’t simple objects; they are infused – already – with meaning and memory and joy.

Part of the joy is this message from Michelle, which I quote with her permission:  “I might even try to incorporate the dishes into my first grant application. . . . I’ve been working to upgrade my space for wholesale production, including a new employee, and this project is the perfect example of the possibilities and the need.”

Wow.  So . . . I needed dishes, and Michelle may get to replace her kiln.  Upgrade her space.  Create a job.

That is the power, the intimacy, and the joy of giving money to an artist.  In a small way, I changed her life.  In an even more meaningful way, she changed mine, because I finally understood.  I can buy art.  Put another way, I can buy the artistic, aesthetically appealing, emotionally thrilling version of something I would have purchased anyway: Salt and pepper shakers that aren’t rusty, a new salad bowl to replace the one the babysitter broke, something cool for the blank walls in my brother’s new apartment, a sweater I can wear in the summer, when I’m always cold.

I can buy art.  And so can you.

Oh, and check out my dishes, because they’re super freaking cool.  I share with you the entire unpacking process, because we haven’t been this excited about opening packages since we were 6.  Seriously.

Want Michelle to make something for you?  Check out her Etsy shop or visit her web site.  Want to have an experience as thrilling as ours?  Browse Etsy and ask an artist to make something just for you.

I started messing with this whole thing on Monday and did most of the literal heavy lifting that afternoon and evening.  Like I mentioned on Tuesday’s lineart post, I finally cleared off enough space at midnight to be able to draw, but there was still a lot of work to do.  I worked on it most of the day yesterday and even part of the day today, and I finally feel like it might be finished.

I showed complete pictures of everything in this post about paranoia, but I’ll show some pictures to refresh your memory:

    

What a freakin’ mess.  I sat here for a good hour pondering the best way to keep everything I need within reach but still be able to function and have more than one square foot of clean space.  I think I settled on a happy medium!

It really is a constant work in progress.  Good thing my genius husband made everything so easily customized, or I’d be TOTALLY screwed.

Now that I can find things, it’s time to paint!  I have lots of stuff to add to my Etsy shop over the next few days, too, so keep your peepers peeped for some of these cutiepies:

    

xo!
sarah

You know what’s awesome?  Having six weeks off before my next show.  SUPER AWESOME.  You know what I did today to celebrate?  Reorganized!  Whee!  At midnight I finally cleared off enough space to draw something from our 100 things to draw when you’re bored list (2013 edition).  Ready? Okay!

First we have number 54, RedRum.  I figured there was nothing more memorable from the movie that spawned Red Rum than those creepy cuties, the Grady Sisters.  They want to play with you.

This past weekend I had a table at a horror convention and hoped to see some Grady sisters roaming around.  No such luck, though.  Lots of zombies!!

And finally, we have number 10, Pizza Pants.  That one has been making me scratch my head for months now, so I figured I may as well tackle it.

DON’T ASK ME I DON’T KNOW WHAT HIS DEAL IS

Yeah, I know.  Scary.

Hey so maybe you should come back later in the week for some hot blog action!!

In the future, I’m thinking this could be a very cool way to preserve odds and ends from your grandmother’s desk drawer, your grandfather’s toolbox, or that weird safe your great uncle kept in his bomb shelter that was filled with spaghettios and Barbie clothes.

Hey.  To each his own, right?

If you have a box of stuff that you’d like to send me, shoot me a message at ann@wonderstrange.com!

Even  being a pirate is not as dirty a business as politics. Apples Vs. Oranges is probably even less compelling than an seventh grade debate team semi- final but hey, it’s here and it’s number 85 !

Come see us Wednesday and Friday for Sarah’s and Ann’s bloggeratings!

Last week, I designed this.  It’s the Creature from the Black Lagoon.  I made it for a woman in Missouri, and upon receipt, she immediately put it on her lap and watched the movie while chomping on gummy sharks, which made me happy.

Meanwhile, a woman from Montana bought the Creature from the Black Lagoon pattern (along with my pattern for Nosferatu) and asked if I’ll be making more Universal Monsters.  I told her I’d like to – which is absolutely and completely true – but I did not mention that I have 13.2 billion other things I’d like to crochet that will most likely come before Universal Monsters.  Like the cast of The Shining.  And Farscape minis.  Have I mentioned Farscape minis?  I frelling love Farscape, a wonderful sci-fi show that’s long since been cancelled.  We’ll come back to that shortly, and by “that,” I mean Farscape, because I still can’t really discuss the cancellation.

Are You There, Blog?

I designed this, too, on commission.  This involved more legwork than an Olympic synchronized swimming routine performed by twelve-legged spiders.  I’m tired.

Are You There, Blog?

Tonight, I ate an entire gluten-free pizza.  Sure, I accidentally skipped lunch, and it wasn’t a GIANT pizza, but still.  What am I, an NFL player?!   I’m 5’2″.  That was my caloric allotment for the month of May.

Are You There, Blog?

I am making Supernatural minis.  A woman I don’t know wrote me in the most pleading terms.  She didn’t commission Supernatural minis, mind you; she just said “Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeze?”  And even though I had planned to spend the entire weekend crocheting Farscape minis, suddenly I was making Supernatural minis instead.  If you want to bend me to your will, now you know the secret.  It’s the z.  And the imploring.  And the 8th superlative e.

Anyway, this woman wants her Supernatural minis really darn tiny so that she can hook them to her bag and take them to cons, and I figure if she wants them that way, others will, too.  Accordingly, my designs are very small, even smaller than my Stargate SG1 minis.

I can’t show you the whole cast yet, but I can show you Bobby and Dean.

They are pretty redonkulously cute.  I am also making Castiel, Lucifer, The Prophet Carver Edlund, and others I won’t name.  Hint: Sam is among them.

Are You There, Blog?

Even now, my 13-year-old son is waiting on me to go watch another episode of Supernatural, which I probably shouldn’t even let him see because of the gore and the sex and the planting of angelic messages in fake porn.  Tonight on the way to the grocery store, by the way, he discovered that he is growing a mustache.  He doesn’t want to grow a mustache, unless it can be – and I quote – AN AFRO MUSTACHE.

Some days, I really, really, extra love my son.

That’s all for now.  Feel free to send me requests, love notes, comments, or autographed objects from Farscape.  Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeze?

I am in mad show preparation mode (my first show of the year is on Saturday – Mayday Underground – you should come if you’re from around these here parts!  There are a bunch of amazerating artists like Nicole of Mealy Monster Land and all the rest of these awesome people), but today I OMG FINISHED A WHOLE PILE OF UNPAINTED STUFF OMG!  Like Mr. Pumpkin King and his minions:

I am obviously in my neck ruff period.  I want to add them to everything, like all of these skull dudes:

If you remember my obsession about boxes a few weeks ago, you can see THAT is still in full swing.  The skull guys have hats that match their boxes, and about 15 minutes ago I finished making boxes for these wee robots (that gear stencil makes me ridiculously happy):

I am trying to resist the urge to make 1000 more robots.  I also am trying to resist the urge to buy a die cut machine since that would make cutting windows in boxes SO much easier, but I wouldn’t really use it for anything but cutting windows in boxes.  My need to be lazy is directly in conflict with my need to be a cheapass.

I have not bled all over my art for months, so I’m jonesing to do some needle felting.  I have all day to make more stuff, so I hope to be able to do the stabby-stabby at some point, but Thursday I have to Ughhhhhhhhhh make displays and tablecloths and stuff UGHHHHHHHH not looking forward to it.  Ugh.

Anyway.

I must be off to finish watching Bates Motel and make some more boxes.  Whee!

Have a good week!

xo,
Sarah