Thursday, December 22, 2005


I can't seem to stop myself. I feel the beads in my hands and my mind starts swimming in the possibilities. A necklace with hanging toggles. A bracelet with gold links. And the turquoise, oh gawd the turquoise. These little, stone nuggets call out to me.

Buy Me.
Design Me.
Sell Me.

It's an amazing feeling to see someone fall in love with a piece and purchase it. And I imagine that it's something that they'll keep for a long time, an item that their child will eventually wear to play dress-up.

An item that people will say, "Oh, remember when we used to wear turquoise? Can you believe that? " (I say this all of the time when I look at my high school photos and see good, decent guys wearing platform shoes and Angel Flight pants.)

It isn't enough for me to purchase the beads and string them. I need them to be purchased. It completes the process for me emotionally.

My husband, the real artist in the family, thinks that this is absurd. "The gift is in just doing the piece, expressing yourself."

Sorry, Charlie. It's all about the sale for me. The reinforcement that someone else loves it, wants it, is willing to cut a check for it.

I suppose this negates me as a true artist and purist. This attitude probably gives me the distinction of being Artsy, a tagline that I dislike immensely.

Artsy-Fartsy is even worse.

It reminds me of all of those porcelain collections considered to be Precious.

Whatever the label, I am Obsessed with this jewelry gig. It's an unexpected gift.