cliodhna’s wave

the house from the beach

So, by hook or by crook, I am not sure which, I have found myself living in north-west Ireland for the next three months. A stormy, rocky, wave beaten, wind scoured, almost desolate, treeless, sideways landscape it is too. Yesterday, were it not for the rain battering against the french doors into the back garden I could have imagined that the ocean and land had traded places and and the squalls of rain were sea currents and the birds being tossed here and there were fish. the view from my back window the beach down from my house The birds fly backwards, its easier and doesn’t get their feathers ruffled so are we going or what? the beach at the end of the road I went down to look at the waves and crossed the rocks to get nearer. The ocean is a scary heaving beast with a life of its own and a casual disregard for all things small. I would be a pebble, an annoyance, a fly, a speck of dust to it. The waves got closer and sprayed me with sea foam.. I got scared and backed off… a lot… to the safety of the grass. The waves are huge here closer and closer

The rock here has fossils in them. Apparently they are famous for it.

Louis the dog

I have a dog and a cat into the bargain, which stops me missing my own dogs and cat too much (though I still look forward to getting them here) and there is a stove to warm the house. Perfect to make art and relearn my songs on the guitar and dream away the nights as the wind howls outside. There is silence now, but I can hear the waves thundering onto the rocks in the distance and a clock ticking somewhere in the house and the dog sighs as he sleeps. And to top it all of two fields away (to quote Margo) is Ellen’s Pub which has a session every Friday night I will go when I have a few songs mastered and when Paul brings my fiddle to me from the states.

Good Night!

Hare, moon magic and swift running and wide eyes and long slender limbs that dart this way and that and flash of white tail bounding over the land. Hare is magic and music and beauty. She is my latest obsession, having graduated in some way from a white fox I now paint and draw hares.

Who remembers Masquerade? Those of you in ireland and england certainly might. I remember the hare and the illustrations though I was too young when it came out to get involved in the quest.

The first image that captivated me was Albrecht Dürer. The study of a young hare. I think it was more the reality of the drawing that got me first, at an age when drawing like that seemed an impossibility to me and now that I see it after many years it seems less somehow, like I imbued it with a magical presence and untouchability when I was young and that impression stayed with me. It is still beautiful and it is a quiet hare that he drew.

My own image of a hare. This is quite large, around 3×4 feet and I like it. It is still sitting in my work room waiting for the sides to be painted and for me to sign it.

a beautiful soft hare sculpture that caught me on etsy by dragonhouseofyuen

a nice image by ElleJW

and lastly, cause my two dogs like nothing better than a charge across the countryside after hares they have not a chance in hell of catching this doggy collar! by fairytailcollars

I have just spent the last hour wandering through Kathy Yorks Art Quilts and being inspired and wowed. Her quilts are beautiful!

This one is incredible, the buildings are all 3d blocks. She describes how she makes them and how she puts lollipop sticks in them to reinforce them structurally.

I adore this one. Called ‘Falling through the cracks’. The bird fishing for the falling beads and the textures of the different colour buttons in the squares up on top. I love the subtlety of the colours.

This one is from Kaizer Krafts blog. I found it when I did a search for ‘goldfish quilts’ before I started my own one. ‘Wow’ is all I can say. She has other pics from the Tokyo International Quilt festival.

This is beautiful.. It is from the National Quilt Museum. The link is to their facebook page.

It makes me wonder when I see art that truly drops my jaw open. A part of me wants to compare and think ‘I could NEVER do that!’ but of course I could, it would just be differant thats all. I am inspired about the whole quilt thing. That is what good art does, it inspires you to create. Dream beyond your old borders.

I am slowly defining myself as a textile artist. Before I did textiles but I wanted to paint and when I went into galleries with my embroideries they would generally shake their heads and say ‘no crafts’. Now, I am starting to find all these quilt shows, textile fairs, arts and crafts festivals and other opportunities that I would love to do. I think getting into an international quilt festival would be a good goal to have!

x clio

I put a treasury together on etsy.. called ‘Queens’ its a collection of queen related items from cool shops.. check it out and let me know what you think!

Queens on Etsy

I just got a comment on the previous post from two really good friends of mine, Linsey who I went to art college with and Simon her husband who owns the nicest jewellry store in the world! ( dublin, wexford street) I worked there for many a happy hour polishing silver, deciding which piece I prefered, this would change by the day and i never really made up my mind. Too many choices

http://www.djinnjewellery.com/

I was in mexico city recently with my mum and dad and aunt and sister and we did all the usual touristy things, for me some of them for the fifth or sixth time.

One place we went where I had only been once before was the templo mayor in the Zocalo beside the cathedral. It is the old centre of the aztec civilisation and is now of course tumblind down and in ruins. There is a good museum attached to it with statues and finds from the area. I love the old statues from old mexico. The faces are so expressive.

These were my favourite. Stone knives with faces on them, they look so comical, like childrens toys.

And of course the ever present spiral. Had a thought about this one, like the spiral was been received by the bottom piece.

Of course if you are ever in mexico city you have to go to the Museum of Archeology. Amazing place and standing in the place of honour right at the back gallery is the sun stone. It is the aztec calender stone and was found buried under the zocalo in 1760. It is impressive in its size and carvings.

Had a thought about the mayan calender when I was there. All the meanings of the mayan calender will not be relevent after 2012. They will have to start again. New beginning, fresh wind, rewrite the world.

to be found at heartworksbylori

I got one of these for my brothers girlfriend-soon-to-be-wife as a kind of welcome into the family present but then according to mum it is her birthday soon so she will have to wait (and daire, if you are reading this before her birthday don’t let her see!)

It arrived in the post I showed it to mum and we both decided we had to have our own. They are soooo yummy actually shine better and more luxuriously in real life than they do in the photo.

These are the photos from her etsy site. I figured she did a very good job of taking them so its better.

They are butterfly wings, (which she assures us do not come from live butterflies but ones which have died naturally) and I can think of at least two other people who would love one. I am wearing mine right now. Its like a precious stone and glows with an intense blue.

totally wonderful….

Stories from Space

Hi, I just have to put this up. I found this website ages ago and was fascinated by it. I love the little worlds she creates and makes us see what is around us in such a different way. It appeals to my sense of fantasy and reminds me of some of my favourite movies. The Dark Crystal by Jim Henson (youtube link) or the Labyrinth come to mind.

I have figured a fun thing to do would be to pick a colour and see what i could find. I decided on yellow for no other reason than it jumped into my head.

I love yellow.. a rich warm sunny yellow. I don´t wear it I paint walls of kitchens and bathrooms with it (and eat it, paul just handed me a yellow M&M) and revel in the warm light it makes in these rooms. I would probably paint my whole house yellow if I could.

Yellow is sun, warmth, light, happiness, simplicity, joy, childish playfulness. At the moment here there are yellow flowers everywhere, shining in the sun and making far away hill look orange. I had an idea to make a coat. A chinese cut, green with yellow flowers all over it. It is forming in my mind as one of those future projects I might just accomplish if I don´t get distracted by more in the moment ideas.

I found this wonderful book on the web. I like her style. Julie Paschkis is her name

And these soaps on etsy.. there are so many yummy soap shops on etsy, I had about thirty tabs open and had to be really strong, favourite a few of them and take just two for this blog.

Skin Journey Shea Butter

Dennis Anderson Lemon lustre shea butter massage bar

These victorian tags are kinda interesting, from Farouche

Yellow citrine, one of my favourite stones…. from Lee Ohio Designs

Quince, known here as Guayabana. It sets into a jelly when mashed up. They use it make a sweet called membrillo here. really good. I also have a recipe for quince cake which I took with me from Ireland to try. I will try it soon I think and let ya`ll know…

a cute baby wearing a yellow hat….

and of course please refer to my yellow umbrella two posts down for extra cheer in an already sunny climate!

x clio

THE LOVE SONG OF J. ALFRED PRUFROCK

by: T.S. Eliot (1888-1965)

S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo
Questa fiamma staria sensa piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero
Sensa tema d’infamia ti rispondo.

• LET us go then, you and I,

  When the evening is spread out against the sky

  Like a patient etherized upon a table;

  Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,

  The muttering retreats

  Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels

  And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:

  Streets that follow like a tedious argument

  Of insidious intent

  To lead you to an overwhelming question …

  Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”

  Let us go and make our visit.

  In the room the women come and go

  Talking of Michelangelo.

  The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,

  The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,

  Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,

  Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,

  Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,

  Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,

  And seeing that it was a soft October night,

  Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

  And indeed there will be time

  For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,

  Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;

  There will be time, there will be time

  To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;

  There will be time to murder and create,

  And time for all the works and days of hands

  That lift and drop a question on your plate;

  Time for you and time for me,

  And time yet for a hundred indecisions,

  And for a hundred visions and revisions,

  Before the taking of a toast and tea.

  In the room the women come and go

  Talking of Michelangelo.

  And indeed there will be time

  To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”

  Time to turn back and descend the stair,

  With a bald spot in the middle of my hair–

  (They will say: ‘How his hair is growing thin!”)

  My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,

  My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin–

  (They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)

  Do I dare

  Disturb the universe?

  In a minute there is time

  For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

  For I have known them all already, known them all:

  Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,

  I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;

  I know the voices dying with a dying fall

  Beneath the music from a farther room.

  So how should I presume?

  And I have known the eyes already, known them all–

  The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,

  And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,

  When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,

  Then how should I begin

  To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?

  And how should I presume?

  And I have known the arms already, known them all–

  Arms that are braceleted and white and bare

  (But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)

  Is it perfume from a dress

  That makes me so digress?

  Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.

  And should I then presume?

  And how should I begin?

  Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets

  And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes

  Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? …

  I should have been a pair of ragged claws

  Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

  * * *

  And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!

  Smoothed by long fingers,

  Asleep … tired … or it malingers,

  Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.

  Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,

  Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?

  But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,

  Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,

  I am no prophet–and here’s no great matter;

  I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,

  And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,

  And in short, I was afraid.

  And would it have been worth it, after all,

  After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,

  Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,

  Would it have been worth while,

  To have bitten off the matter with a smile,

  To have squeezed the universe into a ball

  To roll it towards some overwhelming question,

  To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,

  Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”–

  If one, settling a pillow by her head

  Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;

  That is not it, at all.”

  And would it have been worth it, after all,

  Would it have been worth while,

  After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,

  After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor–

  And this, and so much more?–

  It is impossible to say just what I mean!

  But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:

  Would it have been worth while

  If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,

  And turning toward the window, should say:

  “That is not it at all,

  That is not what I meant, at all.”

  No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;

  Am an attendant lord, one that will do

  To swell a progress, start a scene or two,

  Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,

  Deferential, glad to be of use,

  Politic, cautious, and meticulous;

  Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;

  At times, indeed, almost ridiculous–

  Almost, at times, the Fool.

  I grow old … I grow old …

  I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

  Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?

  I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.

  I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

  I do not think that they will sing to me.

  I have seen them riding seaward on the waves

  Combing the white hair of the waves blown back

  When the wind blows the water white and black.

  We have lingered in the chambers of the sea

  By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown

  Till human voices wake us, and we drown.