provides a treasure trove of practical techniques and ingenious approaches. In this captivating guide, noted artist
Jane Freeman shows readers, step by step, how to use modified kit components, and found and handmade objects to create intensely detailed miniature constructions.
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March 25, 2006
The Moon as a Doorbell, the Sky as a Pan
Having lived so long in New York City, I’ve never felt quite natural in nature. Nature hardly even seems second nature, but more like a trope for elements of urban culture. For example, those purple crocuses poking up, now that it’s spring, remind me of fluorescent neon. When they open a bit to show their golden filaments, they’ll resemble black-light incandescent bulbs. (I do realize the blooms actually were bulbs. The organic kind.) And pastel impatiens and sweet peas make me think of those wave-softened bottle shards known to beachcombers as sea glass. I then remind myself they’re flowers.
I rarely make reverse associations, comparing something manufactured to something natural. I don't seem to perceive directly, without the imposition of metaphor. It's always been like this.
Years ago I arrived at a rural place for a brief stay. Fresh (or rather stale) from the city, I overheard a tall woman complacently praising the beauty of the sunset. I muttered, “Smog makes better ones.� There was no leeway to discuss the illusive hues of sullied heavens during industrial sundowns, for my remark was met by a chilly frown cast from withering heights.
Something similar had happened on a previous sojourn. I’d made the mistake of comparing the shiny curving sky, silvered at dusk, to a stainless steel pan tarnished at the bottom (thanks to a horizon of dusky shrubs). An offended pragmatist retorted: “And I suppose you’d compare the moon to a doorbell?� “Bravo!� I laughed, raising a finger to press the minute celestial knob and wondering who might come to the door.
Early one morning I went walking alone in a rural lane. I couldn’t help but compare the grazing, honking Canada geese to flatulent jalopies backing up. The taut gray ground was covered with dew-frost, glittering like sidewalk mica. The crows were as still as milestones. Invisible critters in the leaves and underfoot sounded like a miniature factory mechanically clacking from afar.
But the scent in the air stymied me. It was like nothing human-made. It was the smell of newness, but not like new-car leather, or Ivory soap, or just-poured concrete on a construction site. The air smelled simply new. Kind of like rain.
Posted by Jane on March 25, 2006 9:35 AM
