(Being a rambling discourse in which our unbalanced narrator holdeth forth on the fine art of hanging shiny things on cords.)
If you’d even suggested as much twenty years ago, I’d have kicked you in the rocks. Even ten years ago, I’d have said, “Uh, that’s nice, but it really ain’t me.”
Yours Truly, making jewelry? Hell, I don’t even wear the stuff, for the most part. Sure, I wore my class ring until I outgrew it (it was rather a heavy affair, and lent the odd punch a bit of authority), like any other guy. Admittedly, I also wore a choker with a silver skull pendant through much of high school. On occasion, I wear the Celtic cross pendant my Ma bought for me at a Celtic festival, some years ago.
Other than that, though? Nothing. No rings, no earrings, no nose-rings, no nipple rings, no co-- well, you get the picture. Come to think of it, I don’t even give the stuff as birthday and/or Christmas gifts. Well, I did give my high school girlfriend a heart-shaped locket for Christmas, back in ’84, but that was a long time ago, and I don’t recall having given anyone any jewelry since.
Until now, that is.
Not long ago, Mags and I were poring over my collection of – uh – “unusual” books, when we found one of particular interest. As she and I are compulsive “do-it-yourselfers,” neither of us likes spending money to have someone else do something we could do ourselves. Additionally, we’re always ready to learn new skills and try new hobbies, which is why this particular books was so appealing.
It was an older-than-dirt W. Ben Hunt offering, entitled Indian Crafts and Lore. As, like most normal, eleven-year-old boys, I was very interested in American Indians at the time, an older relative gave me the book at my grandfather’s funeral. I suppose he was trying to cheer me up a tad, or thought it might take my mind off the loss. At any rate, it was a very kind thing for him to do, and being the sentimental bastard I am, I still have it.
It really is a lovely book, and one from a bygone era. Among its 111 pages (illustrated by the author himself) are enough fun and interesting activities to keep a boy (or even a case of arrested development like me) entertained for days. Maggie’s eyes became as wide as saucers when I showed it to her, while her facial expression grew to resemble that of a kid in a candy store a little more closely with each turn of the pages. To say that her enthusiasm for many of the projects detailed therein equaled or exceeded my own would be something o an understatement – much in the same way saying that Pol Pot wasn’t a very nice guy is an understatement.
So dejected did she appear, as a matter of fact, when I informed her that the homeowners’ association might have an objection or two to our erecting a replica of a totem pole on the lawn, that I consoled her by promising we could make clothing and jewelry. As Maggie enjoys sewing and is very good at it, the next day saw us browsing through the local craft shop, in search of shells, beads, feathers, and similar materials.
In order to decorate our handmade duds in a more authentic fashion, we bought several bags of seed beads in the various primary colors, and, as a lark, some wooden beads, a few bone beads, and some 14# test hemp cord.
The wooden beads came in three colors – a very pale tan, a medium brown, and a very dark, umber shade. The bone beads were stark white, with various patterns incised into them, and then painted black. After making a few test pieces, we decided that whereas they were very pretty in an unsophisticated way, they were still missing something. Being the brilliant fucker I am – and having been none to pleased with the sorry state of the cowrie shells upon which we’d pissed away our hard-earned swag, I grabbed a few scallop and miniature conch shells from my own collection (I collect all sorts of weird shit, but that’s neither here nor there), fired up the ol’ Black and Decker drill, and got my otherwise lazy ass to work.
Selecting the very smallest bit I could find, I drilled a single hole at the base of the scallop shells, and two holes in each conch, by drilling through the inner chambers until the bit came out the other side. One of the conch shells, by the way, became stuck on the whirling bit, and the very sight caused me to flashback to a Hawkwind gig I’d caught some years ago. Dontcha just hate it when that happens?
Being satisfied with my work (and pleasantly surprised at not having ruined the shells), I took them suckers inside and commenced to stringin’. By that time, I knew we were onto something – or on something. I’m still not stoned – uh, I mean “sure.” Once again, the pieces were very pretty, in a crude way, but something was still missing. We returned to the craft shops we’d begun to haunt – they probably know us by name now – and bought a few “value packs” of glass beads in various colors, some crimp beads, and some beading wire.
The next two pieces, made entirely of glass beads and seashells, were so pretty that we kept ‘em for ourselves. By this time, I’d actually begun to enjoy making necklaces, as odd as it may sound. There was something altogether relaxing (and very satisfying) about taking hunks of glass and natural materials, arranging them attractively, and transforming the various constituent parts into a harmonious and recognizable whole. A pile of beads one minute: A necklace the next.
Presto, abracadabra, an’ a’ tha’ shite…
For the last few weeks, I’d been suffering from the most god-awful case of writer’s block I can remember. Writing, as I’ve mentioned, isn’t just something I love doing; it’s a valuable way of “venting,” as well. As some of you know, the last year has been rather a rough one for me. Until last week, the pressure was building like that in a steam-canner, and showed no sign of abating in the foreseeable future. With no “safety valve,” as it were, the darker side of my personality was rising with rapidity proportional to the intensity of the stress under which I found myself.
For some reason, though, the idiot-simple act of stringing beads and stones on a length of cord proved very therapeutic. I suppose it was a matter of having a tangible and aesthetically pleasing product to show for my efforts. By now, we had some idea of what we were doing, and the results were really beginning to show it.
And yet I still wasn’t satisfied.
Making yet another foray to the store, we purchased some faux pearl beads and metallic fittings. And that’s when it began to happen. For some reason, our imaginations were suddenly freed of the bonds that – Uh, Ok. So that’s BS. Neither of us suffers overmuch from lack of imagination. If anything, they’re actually overactive, for the most part…
Suddenly, we were coming up with pieces that we thought were so pretty; we began dismantling our older pieces and restringing them. Though we’d only taken up the hobby a few days before, our first efforts looked crude and clumsy in comparison. Said perception wasn’t a product of our overactive imaginations, either. Certainly, there was a certain, childlike charm to our earlier work, but the newer necklaces and earrings were actually nearing the point at which they could honestly be called beautiful.
In addition to being pretty, the work was beginning to show two evolving and very distinct styles – styles as distinct as our individual personalities.
Maggie’s work is characterized by a certain delicate, harmonious regularity. She also tends to use pale, pastel-colored stones, smaller beads, and daintier fittings.
Mine -- predictably enough -- looks like the work of a lunatic on PCP. I prefer to incorporate unusual pendants (seashells, pendant earrings, spent cartridge cases, etc.); larger stones; a feature I’ll call “faux symmetry”; sharper color contrasts; and to mix materials freely.
For a while, we went through a period of “green eyed monster” one-upmanship. It wasn’t an especially fierce rivalry, but it was in evidence all the same. Each of us, as it happened was convinced that the other was making slightly better pieces. I suppose that in our own weird way, then, we set about trying to outdo one another. At this point, something odd happened: We began “rubbing off” on each other, as a result of which our pieces became increasingly attractive.
We took a few to my workplace to show my coworkers, who, to all appearances, agreed. We sold four pieces that very day. Word of mouth led another coworker to ask to see our wares, resulting in two additional sales.
Since then, we’ve completed nearly 90 pieces, most with matching earrings. As it’s been rather easy to get twelve dollars per necklace (fifteen for those with slightly more expensive pendants), five per set of earrings, and fifteen per matching set (the ubiquitous “package deal”), we thought we’d take our merchandise on the road, as it were.
As the Gentle Reader is probably aware, the Good Lord endowed Mags and me with far more guts and sheer audacity than common sense. This being the case, we took out a table at a local flea market, only to discover that flea markets vary from place to place. As I had to work my straight job that day, Maggie had no choice but to attend it alone.
As I’ve mentioned, flea markets vary from locale to locale. This one was a bit off the beaten path, in a part of Georgia in which the ‘burbs meet the boondocks, and in which many of the inhabitants possess all the vices associated with the denizens of both environments, but none of their virtues.
To make a long story short: The owner was kind, decent, honest, upright, and helpful. So honest and conscientious was he, as a matter of fact; that I’d love to do business with him again. His kind of hardworking, salt-of-the-earth American is a national treasure, and deserves our business.
The clientele, though? From what Mags told me, the world wouldn’t exactly be a poorer place, did some concerned, patriotic citizen slap a belt of .308 into a good, old-fashioned “pig,” line up a significant percentage of ‘em along the edge of a ditch, and cut loose.
One longs for the days of the Old South, during which Baptist and Presbyterian alike momentarily set aside their differences, turned their hearts to the task of “regulating” the amusements of such failed specimens of humanity, and “learnt them the Gospel” of our Lord and Savior, whether by penetrating their thick, heathen skulls with the Word, the tomahawk, or the musket-ball.
But enough of this sorry state of affairs. When a Southern man must accompany his betrothed to market, in order to spare her the advances of armpit-scratching (invariably followed by finger-sniffing) riff raff, it’s obvious that the end of days is nigh.
The next step was the Fourth Annual Heritage Park Fall Festival. That particular experience (for various subjective reasons on my part) merits a post in and of itself. All I’ll say of it for the time being, then, is that we had quite a bit of fun -- for all that it wasn’t the most profitable craft show I’ve ever attended.
Jewelry, needless to say, is no less a visual medium than sculpture or painting. For this reason, Maggie and I have set up a separate blog, wherein we intend to display some of our more interesting pieces. Owing to the differences between digital cameras and 35mm (the latter having been my choice of “weapons” from the age of fourteen until last year), we’ve encountered a few lighting and exposure problems -- problems I was only able to resolve by the time-honored practice of screwing around with various camera settings. As I managed to get the entire matter ironed out yesterday afternoon, we should have a few good shots posted by this afternoon (knock on wood…).
So here it is, 04:00, and I’m sitting here at the computer in the basement office, writing this, and listening to Gene Pitney’s “The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance.” Maggie and the dog are still asleep, for all that we retired at 21:00 or thereabout, so I’ve essentially got the run of the place, and am thinking the kinds of odd thoughts one would be expected to think under such circumstances.
Jesus. Me, making jewelry. Just a few weeks ago, it would have been quite a stretch to imagine myself doing any such thing, let alone writing about it. I’m not sure why I enjoy it as much as I do, either. I’ve heard it said that men are the more visually oriented of the sexes, so perhaps that has something to do with it. It might also be the fact that making jewelry parallels writing in many ways. The ultimate goal of working in either medium, after all, is to arrange pre-existing elements (whether words or beads, stones, shells, etc.) into coherent, expressive and aesthetically pleasing combinations.
Edgar Allan Poe once defined poetry as “the rhythmic creation of beauty.” I’m not in the habit of contradicting the poets of his caliber, but my agreement with his definition, while genuine, is qualified. It would be difficult, after all, to consider the work of the British War Poets – for example -- “beautiful,” unless one is capable of finding beauty in the midst of horror. This can be done, of course, whether in poetry or prose (e.g., Andrew Vachss’s Shella), but the beauty, as often as not, is in the eye of the beholder. Then we come to Eliot, whose work is certainly beautiful, but, while admittedly possessed of a certain “meta-rhythm,” if you will, lacks the rigidly metric quality of the Romantic poets, who preceded the Symbolists from whom he drew much of his inspiration.
Returning to Poe’s definition: As a general principle, it works very well when applied to jewelry. One aspires to make a beautiful necklace, bracelet, etc., and there’s a certain rhythm to the arrangement of the individual components, as often as not. But even in this particular field of endeavor, the Nietzschean “spark of chaos” found in Symbolist poetry pops up now and again. In some of the pieces I’ve made, I’ve attempted (with varying degrees of success) to throw the odd “curve ball,” as it were, and to defy convention in ways not always immediately apparent. Certainly, I’m too much the neophyte to crank out any “dancing stars,” if you will, but hopefully, practice will change this.
As with literature or representational art, it seems that the beauty of a given piece is very much in the eye of the beholder. However idiot-simple this most basic of axioms may seem, it’s easy to forget at times. Saturday’s craft show provided a humorous, if somewhat jarring illustration of the principle’s validity. Mags and I had made several pieces of which we were very proud, and which we found very attractive, by our own standards. The private sales we’ve made up here in Roswell tended to reinforce our preferences, in a Skinner-esque way, leading us to produce similar pieces.
Our experience in Henry County, however, provided us with a “reality check” of sorts. As it happens, aesthetic preferences differ nearly as much from locale to locale as they do from person to person. Up here, for example, the pieces we move are those that incorporate eye-catching, unusual pendants (sea shells, filigree pendants decorated with Swarovski crystals, etc.), or bold contrasts between the primary colors of the beads and the metallic fittings. In McDonough, though, we moved softer colors (rose pink, translucent purples, muted blues), and our customers’ preferences ran towards a more subdued look.
Even though I’d expected the opposite, I’m not terribly surprised, now that I’ve given the matter some thought. I don’t want to read too much into this, but populace of the northernmost part of Fulton County consists largely of the upper and upper middle classes. Based on an information package Mags and I perused when purchasing advertising space for our other business, there are areas up here in which median household income ranges from $200,000.00 to $700,000.00 per annum.
Certainly, there are affluent areas in Henry County. On the whole, though, the people we met there were more often of the working- and middle-middle classes. Suffice to say that ours wasn’t the only pickup truck on the parking lot, by a long shot. Among the wealthier segments of the population, there is a pronounced tendency to try to impress others – “keeping up with the Joneses,” on an epic scale -- whereas the working- and middle-classes, the “just plain folks” are often more modest in both dress and deportment. This is, of course, a generalization to which there are many exceptions, but empirical observation has borne out its validity on more than one occasion.
The experience has left me with a renewed appreciation of the importance of knowing one’s target audience, and of tailoring the selection of goods to meet the demands of the market. As a general rule, the less money an intelligent person has, the less willing he is to part with it. There is also a tendency among the less affluent to do things for themselves, rather than pay someone else for certain goods and services. For these reasons, we found ourselves having to reduce our prices in order to get the product off the table.
This brings us to the matter of money, in general. As anyone who has perused this site for any amount of time knows, I’m pro-liberty, pro-free enterprise, anti-statist, anti-authoritarian, and very much an individualist. Despite (or perhaps because of) these general tendencies, I’ll cop to certain populist sentiments, as well. Each and every member of the so-called “great unwashed” is, after all, an individual human being. Owing to the sheer number of “interesting” (often in the Chinese sense) situations I’ve encountered over the course of my largely misspent life, and likewise, to the sheer number of people I’ve met, I’ve learned to judge a man by the content of his character rather than by the content of his wallet.
I understand that there are certain correlations between intelligence etc., and income, but as often as not, there are as many exceptions to the general rule as there are examples thereof. Allow me to state, unequivocally, that I’m not a philanthropist or so-called “egalitarian,” by any stretch of the imagination. I do not believe for even a second that all men are equal, neither do I claim to. As, however, wealth – of all the attributes a person may possess – is least indicative of his overall quality as I rate such things, I don’t share the contempt for those in the lower income brackets (I occupy one myself, after all…) I so often note among other ostensible Libertarians and Conservatives.
At the craft show, I was discussing this very matter with Maggie and another vendor we’d met that day. Intertwined with the main thread – that of making a living by one’s own efforts – was another: motivation. In the course of the conversation, the inevitable “Why do you do what you do?” question popped up. In trying to formulate an answer, I found that – as with anything else I undertake – several forces motivated me, simultaneously.
For starters, this is something new and interesting. Like writing, it affords me the luxury of self-expression. It’s a relaxing, enjoyable pastime. It allows me to supplement my income. Moreover, it provides me with a challenge; that of taking inexpensive materials and transforming them into something attractive enough to persuade someone else to buy it from me.
OK, now I'm a little closer to understanding why I enjoy it as much as I do...
As I’ve said, I don’t consider a person’s financial status indicative of his/her worth as a human being; which brings us to the next reason I’ve taken up this particular pastime. Bluntly put, the fact that a girl can’t afford a hundred-dollar necklace – or even a fifty-dollar necklace – doesn’t mean she should be categorically denied the opportunity to purchase and wear a pretty piece of jewelry. If, therefore, I can provide such a girl with a thing of such beauty that she’d wear it in public, and for a mere ten or fifteen dollars, at that, then I’ll gladly do so.
If you’d even suggested as much twenty years ago, I’d have kicked you in the rocks. Even ten years ago, I’d have said, “Uh, that’s nice, but it really ain’t me…”
God bless,
Dave