Wonderland
Shards of the Mad Hatter’s Tea Cup (inspired by Lewis Carroll’s 1865 novel, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland) – Antique nineteenth-century pharmacist’s bottle; vintage Royal Albert bone china saucer and matching tea cup shards; antique sterling tea pot/mouse charm; antique Holmes & Edward silver teaspoon; sterling Mad Hatter charm; black and gold cording; large black and gold tassel; grunge harlequin paper, © 2007.
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The March Hare’s house is nothing more than rubble. The foundations are all that’s standing; keystones at each of four corners, delineating a domicile no longer there. Hewn timber beams, splintered and scattered, are all that remain of the roof, the rabbit ear chimneys gone. The surrounding lawns have grown wild, the grass at certain intervals almost knee high. It was here on this verdant expanse that a massive table had been laid for tea time; a perpetual tea time, one that promised to stretch on into eternity. But that promise was broken and time returned, took hold, held sway, swept away. The table collapsed, its cloth, its napkins and cozies, riven and rotted. The profusion of chairs that lined either side, erect and straight-backed, like soldiers awaiting orders, withered, their joints swelling, loosening, giving way, their whittled wood decaying. A large armchair that had stood at the table’s head—the large armchair in which Alice had situated herself when sitting down without being invited—is reduced to its naked frame and jute webbing, its springs lounge in the shade of a leafless tree, scraps of worn burgundy velvet clinging. Bone china crunches underfoot. The tea things—the cups and saucers, the pots, the plates, the milk jug and sugar bowl, the forks and spoons—all broken, bent or buried. (It is just such a broken tea cup, just such a bent spoon that is recovered and removed.)
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And what of the curious trio who once made up this mad tea party?
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One can only surmise.
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The March Hare was most likely a humble European brown hare (Lepus europaeus). And that old adage, “mad as a March hare”, was due to the species’ erratic and bizarre behaviour during the third month of the year, the thirty-one days that made up its breeding season. Their odd actions consist of boxing other hares, jumping vertically into the air for seemingly no reason, or remaining stone still, staring. An early fourteenth-century record of this strangeness appeared in the poem Blowbol’s Test, where it was said:
Thanne þey begyn to swere and to stare, And be as braynles as a Marshe hare
(Then they begin to swerve and to stare, And be as brainless as a March hare)
Hares live only four to five years in the wild; such a civilized example as the March Hare would probably have made it to seven or eight. Or he might just as well have ended up in a nice pot of Hasenpfeffer.
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The Dormouse was almost certainly a specimen of the hazel dormouse or common dormouse (Muscardinus avellanarius) that is prevalent in English isles. They are mainly nocturnal, which is perhaps why the little fellow Alice met on that late-spring day in May, couldn’t keep his eyes open. Their name is actually based on this drowsy trait; it comes from Anglo-Norman dormeus, which means “sleepy”. In Elizabethan times, dormouse fat—whether eaten or rubbed on the limbs—was thought to induce a snooze. These tiny rodents have a life expectancy that matches that of the European brown hare (see above).
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And what of that Hatter?
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The Hatter probably eventually succumbed to mercurialism, the slow poisoning of the system by mercuric nitrate. Mercury, that shock of fluid silver, that lethal liquid metal, was used throughout the nineteenth-century in the process of making felt, and felt was needed for making hats. Hence hatters were contaminated, progressively, by the vapors until their brains shrunk, and dementia set in—thus giving rise to another old adage, “mad as a hatter”. Other symptoms of the malady include red fingers, red toes, red cheeks, sweating, and loss of hearing, bleeding from the ears and mouth, loss of teeth, hair, and nails, lack of coordination, excruciating shyness, insomnia, nervousness, tremors, and dizziness.
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Sadly, given the brief natural lifespans of his fellow partiers, the Hatter would have soon been left alone at the table.
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Maybe by that time his madness was so acute he failed to even notice.
I’m Late… Le Crâne du Lapin Blanc (inspired by Lewis Carroll’s 1865 novel, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland) – Vintage hardcover copy of Alice in Wonderland & Through the Looking-Glass; genuine rabbit skull; antique pocket watch parts; antique hat pins; antique nineteenth-century pocket watch chain; gold-leafed pewter heart; handmade miniature antique kid gloves; handmade miniature fan with tassel; art nouveau patterned ribbon; vintage Baccarat crystal perfume bottle; tiny gold key; colour print of the White Rabbit illustration by Sir John Tenniel; altered art pieces—invitation from the Queen of Hearts, Queen of Hearts playing card, Ace of Spades playing card, © 2009.
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The English countryside summer afternoon, heat, dragonflies buzz on prismatic wings, living darning needles skimming the tranquil, mirror-like surface of brackish ponds, towering oaks standing in sun-mottled shadow, clouds of pollen and gnats, infinite silences, time stands still—just the sort of afternoon that sent drowsy Alice dreaming. Tall reeds converse in whispers by the riverside, their roots extending down into damp soil, crisscrossing past and along worm tunnels, pressing ever deeper until they burst through the ceiling of an improbable hallway, doors to the right, doors to the left, paneling and frames warped and snapped, brass knobs corroded. A small three-legged glass table lies shattered, a tiny golden key fallen, cast aside. And what’s this? A bottle labeled “Drink Me” by some unknown hand, its contents a nauseatingly intense Pre-Raphaelite mauve. Doors? A glass table and bottle? One tiny golden key? But how can this be so far underground?
Wonderland.
The rabbit hole has long since caved in, the pool of tears evaporated, leaving nothing in evidence but crystals of salt. Moving deeper, fungi proliferate, mushrooms of variegated colors sprout, some bright, some muted—on which did a large caterpillar smoke his hookah lethargically stopping only now and then to pose psychologically probing questions? Broken crockery is strewn about, an outsized peppermill tossed casually in the scrub. White roses grow in abandon, untended, their heady scent perfuming the air, their stiletto thorns lethal, protecting secrets to be unearthed another day. Right now, attention is focused upon a heap of cobbles, of moldy thatching, of smashed windowpanes and chalky chimney bricks. A ruined cucumber frame is swallowed by unmown grass. All this is what remains of a once neat little house, its address plate lying amongst a plethora of pebbles introducing in tarnished engraving its past owner, “W. Rabbit.”
What to uncover here?
A small skull. Yes, of the Oryctolagus cuniculus, from the Family Leporidae—the common European rabbit and judging from the tatters of fur clinging, white. A Victorian watch chain, bronze and ornate, juts from what was formerly the pocket of a finely tailored waistcoat, now nothing more than specks of rotted silk. Scattered are pocket watch pieces—unwound mainsprings, bent hands, twisted cogs and gears. Look, a pair of miniature kid gloves—white skin now brown with age—and a fan of William Morris print.
Auxiliary scavenging reveals two antique playing cards, the Ace of Spades, the Queen of Hearts, and a well-preserved invitation, with Royal Seal no less, for a long abandoned game of croquet—the flamingoes taken flight, the hedgehogs lost in the underbrush.
But time is fleeting, dusk approaches. Another expedition planned.
Each article retrieved carefully, cleaned and catalogued, and displayed appropriately enough within a copy of the very book that first detailed this miraculous destination so far beneath the earth’s mantle; to read in its pages the somnolent magic of one little girl’s last summer as a child.
Thus grew the tale of Wonderland:
Thus slowly, one by one,
Its quaint events were hammered out
And now the tale is done.…
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Gryphon Feathers and the Mock Turtle’s Lachramatory (inspired by Lewis Carroll’s 1865 novel, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland) – Antique silver-leafed wooden frame; nineteenth-century crystal tear bottle with sterling embellishment; vintage pheasant feathers; beach sand; sea shells; dried flower; rusted tacks; colour print of sand; hand-stained recipe for “Mock Turtle Soup”; colour print of hand-stained illustrations of the Gryphon and the Mock Turtle by Sir John Tenniel, © 2013.
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The scent of the sea suddenly assails the nostrils; briny, damp and bracing. It startles, surprises. How can we be near an ocean? Has the pool of tears swelled? Has it left its banks and flooded the lowlands? The cat’s cradle of woodland roots and branches untangles, dissipates. There is clear blue sky overhead. The forest floor gives way incrementally to sand—pure, pale beach sand, thick, soft underfoot. A veritable Stonehenge of boulders arise, worn smooth by time and tide, wind and water. Salt encrusts, sparkles. Verdant ferns become water reeds; knots and snarls of seaweed proliferate. Seashells dot the strand, half-buried. The rhythmic roar of waves lures one closer. Up and over a dune and a whole seascape stretches out before us. The sky and sea are of the same colour; where does one end and the other begin?
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Above the continual grumble of the ocean, another sound comes to the ear—a sobbing, ghost-like, ethereal, faint but perceptible. No. Impossible. Just an auditory hallucination spurred by the knowledge of what happened here on this lonely sweep; here where a high-spirited Gryphon and a woebegone Mock Turtle once roamed and ruminated.
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A Gryphon you must know—a mythical beast with the body of a lion and the head, wings and front claws of an eagle; a magnificent creature emblazoned for history on heraldic shields and family crests.
But the Mock Turtle? Ahhh, there’s a different kettle of fish entirely. You all know that turtle soup is made from turtles, then what could be the main ingredient of “mock” turtle soup? You guessed it! This pre-dinner delicacy was quite popular during the Victorian era, and what with real turtle meat being such a luxury (with a luxurious price tag to match), more frugal cooks replaced the costly component with the morsels of veal calves usually discarded—the head, the hoofs, and the tail. And thus the waters of Wonderland spawned Mock Turtles—another peculiar corporeal composite, this one created of the shell and front flippers of the turtle and all those unwanted cuts of bovine butchery. The poor creature has a heavy heart, though, he pines away, weeping, and wishing he was in fact genuine and not faux. After all, how can you spend your lifetime being what you’re not?
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Digs here reveal a surfeit of fine feathers—too large to be any ordinary bird’s; the Gryphon must have molted evidently before becoming nothing but mythical once more. And here, what’s this? An ornate crystal and sterling container—a very rare lachramatory, or “tear bottle”—a strange bit of nineteenth-century mourning paraphernalia in which one saved up the teardrops shed in bereavement, in sorrow for someone or something lost—the spirit of grief made manifest.
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And, in the end, what are tears?
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Simply salt water.
Just like the sea.
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Everybody Has Won, and All Must Have Prizes (inspired by Lewis Carroll’s 1865 novel, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland) – Antique nineteenth-century pharmacist’s bottle; antique nineteenth-century sterling thimble; genuine beach sand; sea shells; drift wood; blue jay feather; wired French heliotrope-coloured ribbon; altered art pieces—“Carroll’s Comfits” candy label, hand-coloured dodo bird print, ©2010.
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Dentis ex Jabberwock (inspired by Lewis Carroll’s 1871 novel, Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There) – Hand-distressed ornate oval frame; genuine bison tooth; genuine desiccated cicada; curled tree bark; cardboard curlicue; hand-stained prints of Lewis Carroll’s “Jabberwocky” poem (both forwards and backwards) and Sir John Tenniel’s “Jabberwock” illustration, ©2012.
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Painting the White Roses Red (inspired by Lewis Carroll’s 1865 novel, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland) – Lacquered burlwood frame; dried white rose; red paint; white wax; custom cut mat; colour print from the original illustration by Sir John Tenniel; colour print of grunge hearts; colour print of dripping red paint, ©2011.
One Side Will Make You Grow Taller and the Other Side... (inspired by Lewis Carroll’s 1865 novel, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland) – Handmade miniature hookah (antique glass beads, brass fixtures, floral wire, gold fabric, brown thread, floral tape) genuine mushrooms; dried moss; dried leaves, twigs, cones, and pods; rocks; Styrofoam, ©2014.
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Once Upon a Time...
Rapunzel, Rapunzel… Let Down Your Hair (inspired by the Brothers Grimm 1812 fairy tale, Rapunzel) – Black wood-framed shadowbox; genuine human hair; antique German Jugendstil scissors; faux pearl-topped pins; dried honey locust thorns; dried flowers; desiccated stag beetle; colour print of antique tintype, ©2012.
Petals from Beauty's Rose and Clippings of the Beast's Fur (inspired by Jeanne-Marie Le Prince de Beaumont’s 1757 fairy tale, La Belle et la Bête) – Antique gold-leafed wooden oval frame; tarnished gold-leafed metal insert; antique French crystal perfume bottle in gilt cherub holder; violet French wired ribbon; dried rose petals; genuine sable fur; antique hand-carved wooden “beast” head; black and white print of black lace; burgundy French ribbon hand-embroidered and sequined; maroon hand-curled feathers; altered art card of antique “Beauty and the Beast” children’s book illustration, ©2009.
A Snippet of Peter Pan’s Shadow (inspired by J. M. Barrie’s 1904 stage play, Peter Pan, or The Boy Who Wouldn’t Grow Up and his 1911 novel, Peter and Wendy) – Antique alarm clock, disassembled, reincorporating its wheels, cogs, and springs; antique pink glass bottle with original cork; dried leaf; cutting of black silk; black silk wired-ribbon, black silk ribbon; genuine butterfly wings; hand-tinted black and white prints of Captain Hook and Princess Tiger Lily, illustrations by F. D. Bedford; grunge harlequin border, ©2011.
Mr. Sandman… Bring Me a Dream (inspired by the children’s fable of the Sandman) – Antique apothecary bottle; dried pumpkin stem; sea glass; silver leaf; Fleur de Sel sea salt; dried poppy pods; dried leaves; hand-decorated French black silk wired ribbon; black thread; silver frame charm; colour print of Papine morphine syrup label; hand-tinted print of “Man in the Moon” medieval woodcut, ©2011.
Myths and Legends
A Horn from the Christmas Krampus (inspired by Germanic folklore) – Vintage apothecary jar with lid; genuine ram’s horn; mica flakes, faux snow; shattered antique glass German Christmas ornaments; antique glass German St. Nicholas ornament; white wax; tarnished silver tinsel; antique sleigh bell; wired French ribbon; antique German Christmas Krampus postcard; antique rusted chains; switches, ©2009.
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You better watch out
You better not cry
Better not pout
I'm telling you why…
Nope, sorry, it isn’t Santa Claus comin’ to town…it’s the Krampus.
The what? I heard you ask.
The Krampus, jolly old St. Nicholas’ original traveling companion. See, in olden days, in the gloom of the Black Forest in Germany where the legends began, St. Nicholas, or Sinterklass as he was known back then, was a kind, beneficent figure, bestowing gifts upon all good little children everywhere—you know the kind, the ones who say their prayers at night, who eat their vegetables, the ones who listen to Mama and Papa, who do as they are told. But it seems jolly old St. Nick had issues with punishing those kids that made his naughty list. So he hired a terrifying black-furred, black-horned, black-hoofed creature, with bulging yellow eyes and one really long, lolling pink tongue to do his dirty work.
Yup, that’s the Krampus—and he gets his name from his set of spiky, feral claws.
It was the Krampus’ job to chastise the disobedient, the insubordinate, the disrespectful and the rebellious into submission. This was done with the sharp switches he carried. And if after being violently thrashed the miscreant was still unrepentant, the Krampus lugged a great big wicker basket and rusty chains around with him and pop! into that basket would go the shackled, wailing brat and he or she would then be the recipient of a one-way trip to the infernal regions.
In short, he was the bad cop to Santa’s good.
Sometimes the Krampus was lenient; if a child had been just a wee bit too mischievous the past year, a lump of coal would be left as a warning of what they would be stoking in the hellfires below if that bad behavior didn’t improve—and fast!
As the stream of German, Austrian, and Northern European refugees disembarked on America’s shores, they brought with them their customs, those involving the keeping of Christmas being the most prevailing. But the fainthearted, lily-livered folk in the New World couldn’t stomach the darker traditions of the Old, and so the Krampus’ immigration papers were refused at Ellis Island and he was deported back home.
Even St. Nick himself got watered down from imposing holy figure in miter and robes to a small, rotund elf in a red flannel suit. After all, that merry old elf with the white beard and cherry cheeks, whose belly shook like a bowlful of jelly with each giggle was so much easier to take—and so much more marketable. Who’d want an inky devil hawking Coca-Cola to the masses? Or climbing down their chimney flue in the middle of the night. And let’s face it, Herr Krampus would be a real tough fit into a season’s recitation of “The Night Before Christmas”…more Edgar Allan Poe than ho, ho, ho…
…and he probably wouldn’t have gotten on too well with those flying reindeer anyhow.
Gone are the days of being borne off to Hell in a hand-basket; the worst punishment Santa seems to be able to manage now is to dole out underwear and socks.
But as history teaches us, old habits die hard, and the Krampus has clung on tenaciously with his claws, refusing to give in to obscurity. He became a prominent figure during the Christmas postcard craze that hit Europe from the late-1800s to the beginning of World War I; his evilly grinning visage bearing “Grüß vom Krampus,”—“Greetings from Krampus”—arriving in the post to households everywhere. And he even has his own eve of festivity, Krampusnacht, the 6th of December, where young male townsfolk are encourage to dress up, their Krampus costumes made from sheepskin, rams’ horns, and a switch or two that they use to swat children and unsuspecting young ladies.
Just goes to show, you can’t keep a horny old goat down for long.
So, remember, the Krampus is still there, lurking in every shadow where the flickering firelight and guttering candle flame can’t reach…and maybe those sleigh bells are in fact the jingling of rusted chains…and maybe Rudolph didn’t make those hoof-prints in the snow…and maybe those twinkling bulbs on the tree might just be a pair of bright yellow eyes blinking…
…and that often-sung holiday tune suddenly takes on a whole new meaning…
He sees you when you're sleeping
He knows when you're awake
He knows if you've been bad or good
So be good for goodness sake!
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.
The Opprobrium of Mother Leeds—or The Umbilical Cord of the Jersey Devil (inspired by the legend of the Jersey Devil) – Vintage Depression glass candy jar; antique hand-forged fish hook; tissue paper; black thread; theatrical blood; red paint; white glue; floral wire; rotted burlap; hemp twine; dried leaf; genuine dried pine branches and pine cones from the Pine Barrens of New Jersey; sand, ©2010.
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Come closer round the fire, kiddies—have I got a tale for you…
A long, long time ago—near on three-hundred years past—in the Pine Barrens of New Jersey – a lonely, desolate sweep of coarse sand and dense forest – there lived a woman known as Mother Leeds. She and her husband (a drunken lout if ever there was one) and their twelve children (guess there wasn’t much else to do in-between brewin’ up ‘em batches of moonshine) called a single, ramshackle cabin home. Life was hard enough scrounging up food sufficient to feed her current brood, then Mother Leeds once again discovered herself “with child”. Maddened at the forthcoming so-called blessed event, Mother Leeds railed at the heavens, shouting, “Let this one be a devil!”
And thus the child was cursed, even before its birth.
Fast-forward nine months.
It was a dark and stormy night when the babe arrived. Lightning crackled, illuminating Mother Leeds’ bed. A midwife scurried about in the candlelight, while the Leeds’ children huddled in the shadows near the fire anxiously awaiting their sibling’s delivery, while Father Leeds snored off the last of the alcohol. Thunder rolled, combining with Mother Leeds’ cries, a deafening din that continued until…
…there came another cry—the cry of the newborn.
The midwife cut the umbilical cord and held the infant up proudly, all smiles. “A boy, Mrs. Leeds—a beautiful boy!”
But no sooner had those words been said then the smiles withered. The midwife frowned, it seemed that the babe was all of sudden heavier, bigger—that the babe was growing! She dropped the little one to the filthy floorboards and backed away, hand to mouth, aghast. Mother Leeds, sweaty and exhausted, drew herself up on her elbows, trying to see, while her other offspring stared, whimpering.
Then those whimpers turned to screams.
Mother Leeds’ thirteenth child was changing, metamorphosing, mutating, right before their very eyes! A devil she’d wished for; a devil she’d received.
The babe uncurled. Pink skin turned dark and leathery. Wings, like those of a great bat, sprouted. Gnarled horns budded from either side of a lengthening skull. Little fingers elongated, lethal claws pushing their way from each tip. Feet became hoofs. Sharp teeth grew from bloody gums, filling in the animal-like muzzle the creature now possessed. Its eyes blinked, its irises glowing hellfire red, its pupils thin, black slits.
It stood.
It stretched.
It turned.
It took in its family, one by one, until those infernal eyes caught its mother in their sights.
There came an inhuman howl—and it leapt!
Carnage ensued.
Those bestial talons tore through flesh, snapped bones, decapitated, dismembered, and disemboweled.
Its work of familicide finished, the creature went to the fireplace. It spread its wings, and with a leap and a bound it flapped its way straight up the chimney and into the storm.
And ever since then, it’s called the Pine Barrens home.
Sightings are still reported.
For three centuries there are those unfortunate few who claim to have encountered it. For three centuries strange sounds have be heard in the Barrens at night—unnatural sounds—eerie wailings, uncanny cries. For three centuries weird hoof prints have been found, in mud, in snow. For three centuries dogs, horses, and cows in its territory, have vanished, or been found slaughtered, half-eaten. For three centuries it has never been caught, never been captured.
It.
Mother Leeds’ thirteenth child.
It.
The Jersey Devil.
Yup, it’s still out there…
…somewhere.
And if you listen real hard, maybe you’ll hear…
Wait!
What was that?
An inhuman howl?
A guttural growl?
A stomp of hoofs?
A flap of wings?
Silence.
Guess it was nothing.
But… then again…
Fangs from Medusa’s Ophidian Coiffure (inspired by Greek mythology) – Antique French cut crystal perfume bottle with sterling stopper; genuine rattlesnake fangs; sterling Medusa head charm; vintage gold frame; black and white print of Medusa by Franz von Stuck, ©2007.
A Draught of Water from the River Styx (inspired by Greek mythology) – Antique perfume bottle; gold cording; genuine ancient Greek coin; genuine desiccated Death’s Head moth; white wax; black ink; vintage gold-leafed frame; black and white print of Charon and the River Styx from Dante’s Inferno by Gustave Doré; black sand, ©2009.
Mother Goose
Hickory, dickory, dock,
The mouse ran up the clock;
The clock struck one.
And down he run;
Hickory, dickory, dock.
The Clock Struck One... (inspired by the 1744 “Mother Goose” nursery rhyme, Hickory, Dickory, Dock) – Handmade “grunge” clock—illustration board, smooth Bristol board, copper metallic paint, watercolours; soot; genuine mouse skeleton; dried leaf; dried rose; bits of genuine rusted metal; antique key; cobwebs; spray varnish, ©2010.
Hey Diddle Diddle,
The cat and the fiddle,
The cow jumped over the moon.
The little dog laughed
To see such sport;
And the dish ran away
With the spoon.
Hey Diddle Diddle... (inspired by the 1765 “Mother Goose” nursery rhyme, Hey Diddle Diddle) – Hand-distressed frame; dried mulberry branches; dried leaves; dried Echinacea seed head; dried lily-of-the-valley stem; rusted tacks; desiccated Mormolyce phyllodes “violin” beetle; colour print of antique cat playing fiddle tintype; colour print of grunge Victorian wallpaper; colour print of close-up photograph of Stradivarius violin wood; colour print of black window frame; colour print of illustration of a cow beneath the moon; colour print of antique “The dish ran away with the spoon” illustration by Randolph Caldecott; hand-stained print of antique engraving of dog with mask, ©2015.
Mary had a little lamb,
Its fleece was white as snow;
And everywhere that Mary went
The lamb was sure to go.
The Lamb was Sure to Go… (inspired by Sarah Josepha Hale’s 1830 nursery rhyme, Mary Had a Little Lamb) – Hand-distressed frame; hand-stained dictionary pages; genuine raw white lamb fleece; custom cut mat; black paint; rusted tacks; old thumb tack; dried lily pods; matte varnish; colour print of antique Victorian postmortem daguerreotype; hand-distressed postcard of the real Mary’s Lamb School, South Sudbury, MA; colour print of antique “Mary Had a Little Lamb” illustration by Blanche Fisher Wright, ©2012.
Old Mother Hubbard
Went to the cupboard
To get her poor dog a bone.
When she got there,
The cupboard was bare,
And so the poor dog had none.
And So the Poor Dog Had None… (inspired by the 1805 “Mother Goose” nursery rhyme, Old Mother Hubbard) – Hand-distressed frame; dog biscuits; onion skins; dried plants; dried leaf; dried gardenia; Fuller’s Earth; rusted tacks; watercolours; colour print of Victorian dog in top hat with pipe cabinet card; colour print of old woman daguerreotype in mother-of-pearl frame; colour print of desiccated moth; colour print of Victorian advertisement for Spratt’s Dog Cakes; colour print of weathered boards; colour print of vintage linoleum pattern, ©2015.
Little Bo-Peep has lost her sheep,
And can't tell where to find them;
Leave them alone,
And they'll come home,
Bringing their tails behind them.
Little Bo-Peep Has Lost Her Sheep… (inspired by the 1805 “Mother Goose” nursery rhyme, Little Bo-Peep) – Hand-distressed frame; hand-stained brown butcher’s paper; old butcher’s twine; antique Oxford silver plate cold meat fork; dried leaves with berries; rusted tacks; brown wax; watercolours; colour print of antique framed tintype of young girl in a shepherdess costume; colour print of antique French butcher’s sheep diagram poster; colour print of Victorian tiles; colour print of antique P.C. Flett and Co. Mint Jelly label; colour print of vintage Mutton Tallow Ointment label; hand-stained print of Wood Brothers Butcher’s letterhead, ©2012
Rub-a-Dub-Dub,
Three men in a tub
And who do you think they be?
The butcher, the baker,
The candlestick maker;
All headed out to sea.
Rub-a-Dub-Dub, Three Men in a Tub… (inspired by the 1798 “Mother Goose” nursery rhyme, Rub-a-Dub-Dub) – Hand-distressed frame; sea shells; desiccated starfish; desiccated seahorse; dried seaweed; drift wood; gilded glass sun face; black paint; cardboard; colour print of Victorian stage scenery; colour print of antique copper tub; colour print of tintype of a butcher; colour print of tintype of a baker; colour print of tintype of a candlestick-maker; colour print of sand and crushed sea shells, ©2015.
The Classics
An Ounce of Water from Jay Gatsby’s Swimming Pool (inspired by F. Scott Fitzgerald’s 1925 novel, The Great Gatsby) – Vintage 1920s art deco glass lithographed picture frame; vintage 1920s art deco crystal perfume bottle with sterling top; dried leaf; artificial daisies; old feather; broken sea shell; strand of genuine vintage pearls; altered art pieces—postcard of Gatsby House, newspaper article on car accident, colour prints of marble tile, white marble and wave mosaic, ©2010.
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The end of the season.
The days grew shorter, summer was fleeting.
There was a slight chill in the air now after sunset.
The tips of the leaves were just turning gold.
The sun sparkled on the pool’s gently undulating waves.
The gardener wanted to drain it, get it ready for its long winter’s nap, pointing out that it was better to get a head-start before the leaves began to fall, clogging up the drains. But he had said no, stating that he hadn’t had a swim all summer—it could wait until tomorrow. And so, he headed inside, emerging a short while later in his au courant one-piece bathing-suit with its black trunks and striped top, pausing only to stop in the garage to blow up a rubber air mattress before diving in.
Time seemed to stand still.
He floated, all but oblivious to the sounds surrounding—the serenade of birds, the hum of a speedboat on the bay, the clear, cool water lapping against the pool’s tiled perimeter.
The speedboat moved on, the rumble of its motor fading, then the birds took flight as the languid silence was shattered by one gun shot—then another—and then, once again, all that was left to be heard was the lapping of the clear, cool water against the pool’s tiled perimeter.
Cool, clear water slowly being tainted with a spreading scarlet stain.
The rubber air mattress drifted aimlessly, buffeted to and fro by the afternoon breeze, its rider motionless.
The great Jay Gatsby was dead.
Jay Gatsby—West Egg’s young rajah, a small town kid with big dreams, the former James Gatz, a hick from North Dakota. He a self-made, self-disciplined, self-invention sculpted from a suspect youth as an Oxford graduate, a disillusioned soldier, a rake, a bon vivant left off the leash in all the capitals of Europe, a possible rum-running yachtsman and even a little boy who once liked to read Hopalong Cassidy.
Yes, quite a mystery was the great Jay Gatsby.
The respectable old wealth of Long Island’s East Egg watched on in dismay as the nouveaux riche of West Egg partied. The music was too loud, the girls too loose, the men too louche, manners be damned, and despite the laws, the liquor flowed freely. The stone steps, the marble patios, the great lawns of Gatsby House, a massive faux French chateau on the Sound, were venues for orgiastic carousing, revels that made the 20s roar to the syncopated rhythms of snare drums and Bakelite bracelets. And while his guests—both invited and uninvited—gorged their stomachs with fine fodder, seared their throats with bootleg gin and danced the foxtrot and the Charleston into the wee hours, their host, that same aforementioned handsome, prosperous, and enigmatic Jay Gatsby, was to be found alone, standing on the dock, his eyes searching the night for a glimpse of a strange green light in the distance.
A strange green light that symbolized his buried past and his hope for the future, a strange green light that hung on the end of the dock of his lost love…
Daisy.
Daisy Buchanan—a brittle, angelic creature, pampered, superficial, and spoilt, with a sirenic allure, an indifferent enchantress who conjured up days of divine romance long gone even though she was now wife to another.
But still Gatsby clung to his American Dream, enmeshed in the seemingly fragile cobwebs of what went before, his life as dusty, dried-up, and desiccated as the Valley of Ashes, a desolate stretch of land laid out between West Egg and Manhattan; a veritable desert, dark and barren, of black cinders left behind by a devastating fire.
A wasteland soon to be the setting of a horrendous event.
Too fast; they were going too fast.
A shadow darted.
A scream.
A dull thud.
The screeching skid of tires.
A momentary silence.
The snarl of an engine as it was revved up, before speeding away.
And the American Dream lay in the ashes.
It was something both simultaneously fated and accidental, something that had far-reaching consequences, something that punished the innocent while the guilty went free, something that caused the clear, cool water of a swimming pool to run red.
And across the bay that strange green light had gone out.
“Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter—tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther. . . . And then one fine morning—
So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”
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The Simious Manifestation of the White Family’s Intense Dismay (inspired by W. W. Jacobs’ 1902 short story, The Monkey’s Paw – Dried baby’s breath; dried ivy leaves; black glass-tipped mourning pins; rusted tacks; hand-stained vellum; colour prints of antique black wood frame; Victorian carte de visite of young man; antique Bank of England cheque; Maw & Muggins business card; monkey's paw photograph by Anne Berry, ©2016.
Drawing Lots (inspired by Shirley Jackson’s 1948 short story, The Lottery) – Antique wooden slide-top box, painted black; various dried flowers and plants; various stones; altered art pieces—lottery label, slips of hand-stained paper bearing town-folks’ names, slip of hand-stained paper bearing black dot, ©2009.
"I do like it. The work is very strong and interesting."
- Laurence J. Hyman, Shirley Jackson's son and literary executor
What is the Law?—Dr. Moreau’s Surgical Scalpel (inspired by H. G. Wells’ 1896 novel, The Island of Dr. Moreau) – Genuine animal bone embellished wooden frame; genuine late-nineteenth-century surgical scalpel; dried leaves; hand-stained antique anatomical charts; colour print of skull drawing by Leonardo da Vinci, c. 1489; colour print of a photograph of a black panther’s face; colour print of a photograph of animal fur; rusted tacks; altered art piece—hand-distressed page of the “Laws of Moreau’s Island”, ©2012.