hair again

My collection of my own hair grows.
What will become of it I am unsure.
Strands unleash themselves as my hair is unwound at the end of the day. They are tucked carefully into my notebook or the jar that holds its sisters.
In bathing three or four strands come away in my hands and I twist them wet on the rim of the bathtub.
sweet sensual studies
Looped and twined each strand a story lived though unspoken.
I am tempted to tie them end to end and weave with them
or place them in all the sacred places of my life
or embed each strand on its own page of a book,
a biography of ten thousand separate strands
written in cursive by the body.

Last April while wandering a Civil War period general store, these pieces of hair jewelry caught my eye. Such delicate work was made like bobbin lace, pinned to a pillow weighted on the other end and woven bit by bit. Such work was most popular during the Victorian era as a momento mori, made with the hair of the deceased to be worn in remembrance of them. In the States sometimes it was made or commissioned by a living woman to send with her sweetheart when he went off to war in leiu of a coveted photograph or painted portrait.

I found this article on the taboos and strange practices surrounding hair.

Simple Beauties

Despite the wistful sentiment I expressed, yesterday was a good day. I took it easy, simple things: to sleep late, to bike, to make, to eat, to list things that should be done later and it was good.
Rode my bike looking up for lines and noted it won't be much longer before those bare limbs and gray skies I love will be hard to find, I have perhaps a week. The red maples are showing their seeds, redbuds, azaleas, and Japanese magnolias (my early spring favorite) are all in full force of fuschia, pink and lavender. Even the winged elms are showing off what they attempt to pass off as blooms, awkward yellow brown specks held gaily every three or four inches down its spindly limb.
I made my way to the ceramic studio on my bike, locked it up, spied this, and took it.

For the first time in seven years (and even then it was for only a short while) I threw on the wheel. Five minutes into it and calm, mesmerized, home. Intentionally, I pushed the first two hunks of clay beyond their limits and mine, they turn muddy with indecision and flop. Trying to grasping what my body remembers and my memory reveals: arms create a triangle, supple but firm, center by pushing toward the middle and up then back down. Friction and twisting calls for water, puddles call for a sponge. For a muddy endeavor I make surprisingly little mess. And from the session I pull a tall cylinderical cup, and a tiny eggshell vase. Prodded a bit at the cup to make it more interesting and easier to grasp. Went home on a cloud.

The sky was covered in clouds this morning, and I heard the announcing honks of a hundred sandhill cranes flying over in tight formation, the wind rose a bit with their presence and then they were gone, the sky followed blue.

I spent a few hours tracking down Japanese Magnolias for you.

Brought a couple blooms home and now their heady scent permeates this side of the house. Termite wings sparkle in the air and a ladybug found its way where I ate dinner tonight. Spring is here and I love it too.

Objects inspiring me for ceramics:
Ruth Gurvich (I saw these on poppytalk in October and it's been haunting me ever since)
Paula's tea set
Go bowls
Yael Mer chairs (via gris)
Jim Partridge scorched bowls
Trove stick ball fret
a tiny lovely
a little line made by a teapot on Mien's plate
(plus her wind carriers and strange gourd)
momo suzuki bowl (via hoping for happy accidents)
these bowls by natalie derouet
kirpputoria rough hewn wooden cup (via Montmartre's Sketchbook)
chestnuts and brazil nuts
this giant knit pouf (made by Christien Meindertsma)