Marchen Studios

The Lady gave me a nick name when I was younger. It was bag lady. It came from the curiosities that she found squirreled away in all corners of the house, it may have come from my inherited Gypsy-ness, it may have come from my unique sense of connection between different items or it may have been pure malice in an effort to hide that last essential piece to my brothers Lego set. Wherever my stowage issues came from the Lady insists that she would find some bag of mine with the following contents; three Lego pieces (all of varying colors), a dice, six inches of yarn, a fork, a dolls coat, two pennies, and, if I was feeling industrious, a crayon.

So, it is little wonder to me, although it is a great wonder to my husband, that my love of bags, suitcases, hat boxes, purses, and pockets (especially of miniature stature) should continue into this strange thing called adulthood. Which is why I am sharing with you one of my most treasured of these. It is well worn, used and loved. The brown leather is soft to the touch and the zipper slightly stubborn in its old age, but like most of the cantankerous old things in my life, I love it dearly.

This small leather pouch belonged to my grandfather. I have fond memories of him carrying it on his person, and occasionally loaning it out as needed by other members of the family. It has been shared and swapped, and often held the few coins that brought the promise of an ice cream or a beer at the local pub. You see, the treasure of this pouch is the secret it holds inside, it is a key.

This key opens the door to a place of warmth and love, my grandmothers house. It was a place where my family squished all five of us into two bedrooms, so tiny that I knocked my head on the ceiling even as a child. The place where we ate soft bread every morning, and had adventures through foreign lands. It was also a place of refuge. I found that whenever my life became too busy, too unbearable, too crazy I could steal away to my Oma. Steal just a couple of weeks for myself, for a time to quiet my mind and return home ready and renewed to face the world again.

I realize now that it was not the house that made it a safe place for me, but it was my Oma. She was one of the wonders of my world. Brave, adventurous, full of laughter and generoisty with her time and spirit. She never did anything only half way, and that included loving us. When she left this world a year ago her final port of call was Spain where she had been adventuring with her boyfriend. I mean, really, what kind of grandmother does that? Mine did.

It may seem foolish to be so upset about losing things. For the most part, I agree with you. Things, houses, possessions, and wealth should only be tools in our lives to brighten them and broaden them. So I find myself in a hypocritical state of begin as my heart battles my mind in a combat over the house; which I may mention is not even my house to begin with. I cannot explain this in its entirety to you, until you have faced the battle you cannot understand it. However, I can try to illustrate my view to you.

Having to give my Oma’s house to someone else, is like having watched an artist use their favorite tools for many years. They have crafted beauty with these tools, and now that the artist is gone the reminders you have of them, and all the things they taught you, are in their tools.

You see, my Oma was an artist. Her house was one of her tools. And when it came to crafting a full and vibrant life; she was a master.

’till the next adventure,

Jessica

Funny thing is…..I really don’t understand why my inner gypsy is so eager to possess something symbolic of Home and Hearth, something that speaks of tradition and legacy. All my dreams as a child involved living in fluidity, traveling the wide world in wagons and trains, slicing through the ocean waters on tall ships, sleeping outside under velvet canopies punctuated by silver moons.

In reality I’ve always had my castles in the clouds firmly thetered by chains of responsibility, fear of the unkown and the need to belong.This three fold cord fashioned security for me. My childhood imaginations of the wild blue yonder were only fun because I had the protection of my grandmothers house. Those thick slate walls were my stability long after we moved from her place, still returning every slice of time afforded.It will always be a safe haven for me, even if can only travel to it every couple of years. In my minds eye I see the sunlight streaming in through tiny cracks in attic, I smell the musty coolness of the winecellar, hear the clickety-clac of Oma’s shoes as she ran down the worn wooden stairs.

Mama and I wandered through five apartments, until she finally found a house of her own. What elation! It was tiny, it was old, it was difficult, six little rooms stacked on top of each other strung together by an almost vertical staircase, a bath in the cellar and the only toilet on the ground floor- but it was ours. Giddy with excitement, we poured over wallpaper books, carpet samples, diving into bins of fabric to extract the perfect sheers to let the sunlight in and keep curios onlookers at bay. After a grueling divorce, sweeping out the dust from century old floors became an act of determination for my mother. The wallpaper of grass and cheerful daisies , every brush stroke that covered dingy rooms with sunny yellow, was applied with hope for an equally sunny and cheerful future.

And yet, taking on ownership of that little row house with the bathtub sized front yard and the balcony encased in  wrought iron curlicues was bittersweet. As our heart was filled with happiness over our new home, the key was handed over by the gnarled hand of the old schoolteacher that used to live there. Her body had the final say, with knees that could not maneuver the steep stairs anymore, hands that had difficulty opening the shutters to let the morning light in. Her hands reluctantly let go the key, her heart never did…..

The Lady’s eloquent story about keys, and a request made to me, inspires a post of a picture of all the keys. So without further ado, I give the Keys in real life.

These are my favorite. Who wouldn’t want to find the locks for these ornate keys?

This is a vase full of keys that Paul keeps on his desk. We bought them on our last trip to Germany.

But these are the real treasures. These are the magical keys to my great-grandmothers house. They opened the garden gate and places of refuge for generations of my family.

’till the next encounter,

Jessica

Growing up in a city where one could stumble over stones laid by roman soldiers and skip past houses that have been leaning against each other since middle Ages infused me with curiosity and fascination about gates,doors and the keys to open them. A key is always a precious thing….it allowes you to belong,find shelter, it is witness to the trust and bond the moment its given. My earliest memory of a key important to me was a grand rusty skeleton key that opened ( but only if you jiggled it just so, like a secret handshake) an equally rusty gate at my grandmothers garden amidst wild blackberry brambles and vineyards in Traben-Trabach. Not getting the key to coax open the bite that the old lock had on the heavy chain meant no hiding under the canopy of the rhubarb leaves, no climbing in the sourc herry tree, and worst, giving up all hope for sweet strawberries, with nothing but an empty handed hike back to the house to look forward to. Oma ran a Bed and Breakfast in summer, which basically meant that every family member currently staying got ousted from their beds and and redistributed throughout the house to whatever attic, sofa, washroom, bathtub or next door aunt they could plunk their feather blanket on, whilst the guest was presented the key to the house with great ceremony. I always thought it funny, because the house, unlike the garden, pretty much stayed unlocked my entire childhood, until Oma grieved my Opas passing and started to lock the old oak doors,at fiest to feel safe alone, then to keep strangers out when she started traveling. By the time I was 12 I was proud key-carrying member of the latchkey kid club, after finally argued my mom into releasing me from the daycare where I had been long enough to become second oldest kid there, and the two of us were driving the nuns to their knees in a battle of teenage rebellion versus good catholic contrition. (We lost, but left some scars) “I p-r-om-is-e, I’ll go straight home after school, no, I won’t hang out with dubious people in dubious places, never will I ever let a-n-y-one in the apartment, I’ll do the dishes EVERY night…..just let me have my Own key!” Needless to say that each of these promises were cracked faster than the window by someone who dosen’t concern himself with keys. Nevertheless something I always longed for was given to me: that power held within ones hand, that little piece of metal giving entrance, letting me choose who to invite in, who to hold at bay, this being able to hear the thud of a door falling and knowing I am safe. The funny thing is, ……..

So today was a day of solitude. Its a good thing for me. I woke up this morning with a major stomach bug and I needed the rest. Once my stomach got over turning over itself I came into my studio, which is a horrible mess right now, and I made a journal page, and then I worked on the computer…alot.

It really is sad to me but in a lot ways it is taking over my life. There are so many things that need to get done and yet there are so many other things I want to get done. I am in search of balance…..sweet balance.

I know that this is only a phase….at least I hope it is only a phase….and that once the initial creation is completed I can start working on maintenance which will hopefully be a little easier…..at least I hope.

and then I see the tab at the top of my screen and it reads “Marchen Studios> Create New…”

Lets see what is created new around here in the next couple of weeks.

‘Till the next encounter,

Jessica

So, I know these past two weeks I have been hinting at working on some new and exciting project, well here it is! Some of you may already know about it, others may not. I have been building our own special network for all of you creative souls out there.

So head over to community.marchenstudios.com and join up, stand proud and tall in the ranks of the creative.

‘Till the next Creative Encounter,

Jessica

So today is the end of my challenge. I don’t know that I rose to occasion completely but I did get more art work done than I have in a while. I must say that my last two pieces are my favorites.  Here they are:

I finished my canvas from the other day.

Then I started a new art journal, this is my first page.

‘Till the next creative endeavor,

-Jessica

Well, what can I say……how flattering to be called upon, not just with a sonnet, but a haiku and a limerick, just for good measure. That is not to be ignored! To my defense I have to say that it wasn’t pure laziness that kept my fingers from stumbling across the keyboard ( it will be a long time till they can perform the whirlwind dance that Jessie’s hands have mastered) but I’ve been plagued with an overload of things to say, only to come to the conclusion, that since I could not come to a decision on subject or title, I must have, really, nothing to say. It is not easy following this train of thoughts in my brain , knowing its tracks don’t necessarily pull into a station. So here is my long winded post about nothing in particular, except to declare that now the dam is broken, the silence breached and regular post shall be forthcoming, even if they might be about nothing in particular!

This is what I accomplished over the weekend. It is a small canvas, about 3″x3″. I am going to add more to it later, but I thought I would share with you all the beginning and let you see my process…I guess if there was one anyways..he he…

Onto something more fun. I don’t know how many of you have noticed that the lady has not been around lately. I have been prodding and pulling at her to blog and I finally enlisted some help. My good old friend Zac is a wonderful poet, and also loves reading the Lady’s posts. So I asked him to write a poem asking the lady to Blog again. He came up with three. Here they are:

Haiku

The Lady would write,

But where have all the words gone?

Into silence, fall.

Limrick

The Lady’s unique above most

She started a blog, that she could boast

And yet she forgot, (or possibly not),

That to blog, one must actually post!

Sonnet

I wonder where the Lady went.

No words are sent

To free this place

Of empty space

And thus eternal silence reigns

Across the plains

Where muses die

And poets cry

And yet I hope the words return.

I may discern;

From where they’ve gone

In distant dawn

So, here’s to Zac! Thanks for the great poetry my friend. I have promises from the Lady that she will be back this week, make sure to stop by and say how glad you are she’s back!

‘Till the next creative encounter,

-Jessica

I did not manage to make any art yesterday, but that was because I am working on something else which is super exciting and should be up in the next week or so…he he….

This morning though, I did make some art. I took my Madonna from the other day and I made the page into an art journal page. Granted she now looks more like a modern punker then a Madonna…or maybe Italian Bella….anyways, here she is:

This is also the second to last page in the journal that I have been using for the past nine months! It is so hard to believe I have already filled it up. I guess I need to find a new journal for the new journeys that I will be taking.

Until the next creative endeavor,

-Jessica