Flutterbye

“I just love the way you put faeries into all your work. That’s what makes it soooo special,” she gushed, “I luuuuuuuv faeries.”

She was looking at “I Dreamt the Jacobean Rose,” one of several samples I’m pulling together for a prospective client and, frankly, it ain’t of a faery. Especially NOT a fashionably flirty flower faery. (say that fast five times)

I don’t want to stamp on anybody’s religion and I’m not making fun of people who luuuuuv faeries (well, maybe I am). But I have a sneaking suspicion that if there really are non-insectivorous winged beings hanging around peoples’ gardens, they SPIT on cute and fluffy. A little less giggly nectar-sipping and a whole lot more pounce-chew-gulp.

Hmmmm. Some day I might sculpt my version of real faeries. It won’t be pretty.

Ever since I figured out I could sculpt faces (and, more important, get the expressions right), I’ve had this obsession with hiding faces in my sculptures, to the point that there’s always at least one face (or body part) in anything I do. It’s kind of my own personal “Where’s Waldo?” game, and it’s not particularly benevolent. It’s both an admission that some hidden soul knows a lot more about stuff than I…and that it’s too easy to get lost in these worlds we create.

The smart thing would have been to smile and be happy that this lady has incorporated my work into her own personal fantasy. My friend Catharine said as much last week: “If people can put themselves into your art, it’s good art. You should be happy.”

OK, I am. As I’ve said, it’s fascinating, listening to viewers interpret my sculpture. I’ve had near-novels recited over May and Boy, Bubbles and the Vintner which have absolutely nothing to do with where the subjects were in real life. Some of their stories are so good I’m tempted to adopt them instead of the real thing.

OTOH, I now call this one “the labia piece” ever since a gallery-goer firmly insisted that’s what I was depicting because…well, never mind. And if you don’t think THAT made me delve into the depths of my soul for hidden sexual tensions coming out in my work, think again. Strangely, my friends shrug and say, “Well, of course that’s what it is–we thought it was pretty obvious.”

Score minus-one for self-awareness, I suppose.

But….faeries? “It’s NOT a faery,” I say through gritted teeth, “It’s just a tiny woman’s face embedded in a flower…OK, I can see where that might be interpreted as a faery, but…

And I had an inspiration. “Here,” I said, dragging her over to May, “See? I don’t always put faeries in my work.”

She took a good long look at May, the menacing face, the angry expression, the stark black glass that surrounded her.

“Oh,” she said, “An EVIL faery!”

Sigh.

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