...Claude Vindel...

If there were but a small portrait that you could really fall into and write a story about, or become lost in an enthrallment of aged pencil and paint... then what you really want to behold is this fine mans' work - Claude Vindel.

...did i weep at the thought, i lost you...

So i smile in your remembrance,

and what a time we have had. Well what a time you have had.

It is, for lack of a better word, odd when we lose someone close to us, that immediate passing and knowing you won't see them again. I can't quite fathom how sudden it is. It is also difficult to not sound so bloody negative when describing how one feels too; I am struggling.

It is a first for me today to be told I have lost someone I regard as one of the most influential people in my life. A huge love in my life, she might as well have been my biological Grandma, that is the bond we made. I won't ever forget Graces' smell, dusty roses with a hint of cotton musk is the closest I can come to as a description. It was a comfortable loving smell, and she gave the greatest hugs.

I have learnt as much from Grace as I have from my own mother, and their power over me whilst growing up was equal. The only difference I suppose was from my mother I learnt the love for cooking, being stubborn and the difficulties of our mother/daughter relationship as a teen yet from Grace i learnt the love for fashion, history and being a woman. They both taught me independence.

It was Grace who taught me how to sew as well as my first stitch on a sewing machine, which years later she then gave to me as a present when i expressed how much i wanted to be a Fashion Designer. She taught me flower pressing and the attention to detail one must give in clientelling as well as pattern cutting. Yet through all this, what i loved and will miss the most are her stories. Stories of her life.

The great lifeline tales of Grace were usually told in sections depending on what mood she was in or current news running in her family that reminded her of her past. My biggest regret is not having a notepad with me to jot everything in minute detail as she spoke. You become encumbered in a soft glaze whilst Grace talks. She has, had, this fantastic way of engaging and involving you within the story. I reckon as much as her voice it was her eyes that did this. One day it might be about her love life with Fred, her husband who had passed away over a decade ago. It was a passionate relationship more on his behalf and it was here Grace taught me "If you love him, really love him don't dare let him go". Thus it begun from such a young age my romantic quest to conquer true love. Obviously most adolescents go through that stricken heartbreaking stage of loving nearly every male in sight...I have to say mine was quite different...nevertheless that is for another time...

One day it could be about her nursing soldiers during World War II that were sent back home to be treated or her mothering ways working as Matron Guard in a womens' only prison to which she started teaching prisoners how to sew. This might've led to a story about her favorite dress her mother refused to buy her, but instead made as a surprise or how she finally became a seamstress. The flow of tales were constantly mesmerizing and I used to lose hours of the day, running back and forth occasionally to the kitchen with fresh cups of tea and biccies.

It isn't just me who has lost a fantastic woman. I feel for her family greatly and to the others in the neighbourhood she was close to as well as I. She looked after us all and in return for her listening to us and giving advice, we listened and gave back. My mother did Graces garden up and we would both cook meals to take over. Sandy, number 21, would check in as well as Carol number 46 with some cake.

For years Grace was this loving guide, from when I fell down a supposed fixed manhole when I was 10 years old, she was livid at the council - to when I had an argument in my teens with my stepdad and I cried on her shoulder - to only a few months ago I wrote her a birthday card and a letter telling her I had found the one as well as my art - she was ecstatic for me.

There is only so much you can do when you lose a loved one. I have a piece of artwork I painted to give to the family that reminded me of her. I think I've stopped with the tears for now, instead i'll try my best to remember the time we've spent together and how grateful I am to have met such a great woman; who lived at number 44.

I won't cry knowing I miss her, i'll smile knowing I always will.

...and snuggled into a studio space....

Backlit!

We have arrived!

Finally moved my things to my new studio space at Backlit which isn't too far from Nottinghams City centre, home or work, woohoo!

Just finitoed tidying and arranging and am about to get my painting skills on in the form of decorating.

There's some relief knowing you have a secret cubbyhole to work in surrounded by other fellow artists creating away in their cubby holes, everyone focused on their little bits and bobs coming together, it's so exciting. I love seeing different talents in art and what themes and crafts people are into. Mellow ideas to chaotic creativeness! I can not wait!

Few sketches to finish off from past ideas and a tattoo design to finish for Sir DeSilva, then onwards and upwards to land back down again in Narita Airport for a lil Sushi perhaps???.......Ohhh la la......

http://www.backlit.org.uk

...I may have fallen into place...

AND SO OCTOBER

Was blasted away with a click of many fingers, each pinky being stress, busying myself with managing Nottingham's Collard Manson as well as running around after my exhibition with the "Cheeky Stitches Punch" crew, and unfortunate mishapenings that occur with friends and loved ones.

My new thought for this winter is HIBERNATION!

I'm so sick of arguing, negative vibes and tension.

This winter i want copious amount of hot choccie an

d Quantro, snuggles on an epic rug and the sheer guilt of once again annihilating an entire cheeseboard on boxing day morning!

Apart from that I am quite happy October has zoomed by; brings us closer to a new year of fresh art and garments to be manufactured, closer to Christmas and closer to a well deserved week and a half of abusing ones body with yummy food and wine pleasure at the lover's parents abode.

Will be uploading photos soon though of the successful "Cheeky Stitches" exhibition. I wish it was maybe promoted more vigorously or quite a time before as it seemed it wasn't well known, however I did manage to sell a few things - which is exciting. My business cards, which are the front and back of the images shown, vanished quickly too so hopefully emails of ideas and orders will start to pour through in the lead up to Christmas!

...and with a sense of self...

GOOD NEWS!!!

I am going to partake in an exhibition called "Cheeky Stitches" ran by a group of young adults enthused by the creative world; promoting local and upcoming designers in Nottingham. Of course i am in the fashion category which will be the first group on show for a week but there will also be a separate exhibition for graphics, photography and other areas of artistic nature in the weeks to follow.

Decided to base mine on a few things i've been working on individually as mini projects, however noticing a link in the chain i have grouped the projects together.

"A Sense of Self"

Is the title of the collection, based on the six senses and ones journey with all.

More info will be on the way with the whereabouts and time of the exhibition and my progress with the work i will be showing. So far Illustrations are done...hurrah...

...just need to complete print, necklaces, designs and garments, hmmm...

...chaos reigns in shredded tatters...

Little buggeration like things to do...

ON A SCALE OF MASSIVE PROPORTIONS!

Just why must this happen....oh because the realisation of everyday life likes to shit on everyone... in the forms of banks, student debt, banks, i.b.s in the form of wheat, banks...basically banks is top of my list. I can't believe in total it has taken almost 2 months to sort out one measly renewal of a debit card....

....anyway....

...i shall taint this blog no longer with the word or topic of banks....*shudder*...

Instead i shall go on to apologise for my delay in putting up posts and artwork as i have been working and enjoying my weekends off in the sun along with my Sir Davis. As autumn draws nearer and winter licks at the very edges of leaves crisping, i am pretty sure i will be annoying you all with plenty of posts...

In the mean time here is a beautiful short story, taken from a book i just finished reading, fucking incredible, Chapter 17 of "The Gargoyle" written by Andrew Davidson.

"Long ago in old Japan, a girl named Sei was born to a glassblower named Yakichi. At first her father was disappointed that she was not a son, but his disappointment ended the second that he held her. From that moment on he was devoted to her, and she to him.

Yakichi watched with proud eyes as Sei grew from a spirited child into an intelligent young lady. That she was beautiful was beyond question and, in her fine features, Yakichi could see his late wife’s eye- lids and cheekbones. The mother died when Sei was just a child and this made the father and daughter hold each other all the tighter.

On the verge of adulthood, Sei decided to follow in her father’s footsteps. Yakichi felt great joy in her decision and his happiness was now complete: his knowledge wouldn’t die with him, after all. Sei adopted the title of Glassblower’s Apprentice and showed remark- able potential and quick progress. She had a delicate touch and, more important, she could envision the object before it was blown. Technique can always be learned, Yakichi knew, but Sei was born with the gift of vision. She could see beauty where others saw only empty air.

Sei studied well under her father’s tutelage, learning just how hot to stoke the fire and just how forcefully to blow. She learned to read the bright glow of the heated glass. She worked diligently to develop her understanding of breath; for she knew that with breath she could create a world. She imagined herself breathing life into the glass and, with every week that passed, Sei came closer to realizing the loveliness of the objects that she could picture in her imagination.

Yakichi began to bring Sei to the local weekend market, where he maintained a stand to sell their wares. Men started to come in swarms. They claimed they wanted to look at the glasswork but re- ally, of course, they came to look at the captivating young woman. “How like glass you yourself are,” one old man couldn’t help but say, scuttling away like a crab across a beach when he realized that the words had actually slipped aloud from his claws.

Soon, their table was selling out before lunchtime. Almost all the pieces were purchased by men—even as gifts for their own wives— simply because they wanted to own a container of Sei’s breath.

Yakichi was pleased. Business was stronger than ever, finances were good, and Sei was becoming a fine glassblower. But for all their success, Yakichi wished a husband for his daughter. Though he was a protective father, he wanted her to experience all that life had to offer and, he thought, a “beneficial” marriage would better their family line.

So Yakichi took stock of the men who frequented the stand. There were artisans, landowners, fishermen and farmers, soldiers and samurai. Certainly, he mused with a smile, there would be no shortage of suitors. After all, Sei had beauty, skill, health, a pleasing personality, and loyalty. She would be a fine wife and good mother, anyone could see that, and it would be easy to arrange an advantageous marriage.

When Yakichi approached his daughter to suggest this, she was quite shocked. “I know this is the tradition,” she cried, “but I never thought that you would ask it of me. I will marry for love, and love alone.”

The force of his daughter’s conviction surprised Yakichi, for she had never before gone against his wishes. Marriage was for improv- ing one’s family position, the old man thought; marriage was not something to be undertaken for love. And yet Sei insisted and, be- cause Yakichi adored her, he acquiesced. Still he worried, because there was no one in his daughter’s heart.

But, as is often the case in these matters, Sei soon met a young man, and she did fall quite completely in love with him. At first, Yakichi was displeased because Sei had chosen Heisaku, a simple farm boy with neither money nor prospects. However, the boy had a pure, good heart. So, maybe . . .

Yakichi remembered his own departed wife. Although theirs had been an arranged marriage, they had been lucky and Sei had been conceived in love. Buoyed by the memory of his own good fortune, Yakichi decided that he could hope for nothing less for his daughter. He gave his blessings to Sei and Heisaku.

It was about this time that one of Sei’s more inspired pieces—a glass flower—was given to a daimyo, a local feudal lord, by one of his servants. This daimyo was despised and feared for his brutal temper. He had no time for glass flowers and angrily asked the meaning of the trivial thing.

The servant, always looking for special favor, said, “I thought you might like to know, my lord, that this glass flower was created by the most beautiful girl in all the land.” The daimyo’s ears pricked up and the servant quickly added, “And she is unmarried.” The servant, you see, had recently overheard the daimyo talking about his desire to start producing children, saying that only the most beautiful and skilled woman would suffice.

The daimyo quickly decided on a plan of action. He sent out a message that he had in mind a commission for a great glass statue, and that he’d heard Sei and her father were the most skilled glass- blowers in all of Japan. For this reason, the message claimed, he was summoning them.

The daimyo had no more interest in commissioning a glass statue than he had in commissioning a ladder to the moon. He was interested in owning land and castles and cattle and rice fields. And a beautiful woman. Yes, that interested him very much. But Sei and Yakichi knew nothing of this, and were only excited. They imagined that this might be the first of many noble commissions—in short, the realization of their dreams. So the father and daughter loaded up their little cart and set off for the daimyo’s castle.

They were admitted into the main court, where the daimyo was waiting, and his eyebrows went up at the sight of Sei. His gaze followed her around the room; to Sei, it felt like cockroaches upon her skin. She could tell immediately that this was not a good man, as he sat there turning one of her glass flowers over and over in his grubby fingers. But this was not about her feelings, she told herself, and all she could do was give the best presentation possible.

Sei and her father showed the daimyo their finest works and de- scribed them in detail. She showed crystal cranes and glass-bubble blowfish with translucent skin. She displayed tinted sake glasses and heavy goblets. She exhibited plates and toy horses and wind chimes that produced pure notes in the slightest breeze. When father and daughter were finished, a rainbow of glass lay before the daimyo.

The daimyo was impressed, sure enough, but by the artist, not the art. Sei was the most enticing girl that he’d ever seen. He clapped as Sei and Yakichi bowed deeply. “I have made my decision,” he announced.

The father and daughter held their breath, which was highly uncommon for glassblowers. They waited hopefully but the words were not at all what they expected. As he fingered the glass flower, the daimyo said, “Sei is fit to be my wife and bear my children. She should be overjoyed with her good fortune.”

Sei knew that this was a very powerful man and that to oppose him would be very difficult. Nonetheless, she could not stop herself. “But I love another.”

Yakichi immediately begged pardon for his daughter’s abrupt- ness. When pressed, however, he did confirm the truth of her statement. The daimyo was livid and the glass flower snapped in the involuntary fist that he made. Who could compete with a lord? He demanded to know who this “other” was.

Sei spoke up. “He’s only a farm boy, but my love for him is true.” The daimyo asked, “What is his name?”

Sei feared that if she told, Heisaku would be hunted down and killed. She looked at her feet for a moment and then lifted her head to meet the daimyo’s gaze. “The name of a simple farm boy should be of no consequence to a lord.”

The daimyo was shocked by the girl’s audacity. Then he laughed, too loudly, too spitefully. “A farm boy? You dare to choose a farm boy over me? You dare to withhold his name?” The daimyo looked down at his hand and saw that he was bleeding where the broken glass flower had cut him. The blood calmed him because it reminded him who he was.

“You will not marry this farm boy,” he stated with certainty, “and you should thank me now for the life that I have saved you from. You will marry me.”

Sei spoke with equal certainty. “I will not marry you. I will marry the farm boy or I will marry no one.”

The daimyo’s counterargument was swift and merciless. “Very well. Marry, then. Marry this farm boy and I will execute your father. But marry me and your father shall live.”

Sei stood dumbstruck, for never could she have imagined herself in such a position. Never could she have imagined a man such as this. The daimyo continued, “In one week, you will return to this court and speak a single word. ‘Yes’ means you will marry me and your father will live. ‘No’ means you refuse me and your father will die. A single word. Think well, Sei.” With this, the daimyo threw the shards of flower at her feet and swept out of the courtyard.

Father and daughter were released from the castle to ponder their answer. There was nowhere they could hide; they could not just pack up and move, as they would be found wherever they went. Yakichi pleaded with Sei to say no. He was an old man with only a few more years to live, he argued, but she had her entire life ahead of her. The father was willing to die so that the daughter was not condemned to a lifetime of unhappiness.

Sei wouldn’t hear of this. She refused to make a decision that would kill her father. And yet, she knew the unhappy waste that her life would become with the brutal daimyo.

That night, Sei was unable to sleep. She tossed in her bed, considering the problem from all sides, but there seemed to be no way out. Then, shortly before dawn, inspiration came and she knew what she must do. When Yakichi awoke, he found his daughter gone and, in her place, a note stating that she would be back in a week to face the daimyo.

First, Sei went to her farm boy and explained the situation. She told Heisaku that he was her one true love but that she would never be able to speak to him again. The last words she said to him were “If you listen to the wind very carefully, you’ll be able to hear me whisper my love for you.” Then she disappeared.

Days passed, and Yakichi began to think that his daughter must have run away. Though it saddened him that he would be unable to say goodbye, he was reassured that she would live. When a week had gone by, the father appeared before the daimyo to say that Sei had disappeared and that he was pleased to forfeit his life in her stead.

The daimyo was about to order the father’s execution when two women, clothed in simple robes and with shaved heads, entered the courtyard. It took even Yakichi a moment to realize that the younger woman was Sei. He broke into tears now that Sei had reappeared to marry this awful man.

“What is this?” the daimyo demanded. “Why have you shaved your head? Who is this woman with you?”

But neither Sei nor the older woman spoke.

The daimyo raged, “What is this insolence? I command you to speak!”

Still, Sei and the older woman remained silent.

“What is your answer? Will you be my wife, and save your father’s life? Or shall I kill him because of your selfishness? Answer my question—yes or no, will you marry me?”

And still, neither Sei nor the older woman responded.

The daimyo spat on the ground. “Execute the old man!” he commanded. But Sei raised her hand to stop the two soldiers who stepped forward to take her father. She approached the daimyo and held out a sheet.

He gestured to one of the others in the court to take the note, as if it were beneath him to handle it personally, and growled, “Read it aloud, so that everyone can hear the words of this most disrespectful girl!”

The courtier glanced over the note and cleared his throat. He did not want to read what it said. But he had no choice:

One week ago, you asked me to be your wife. The word yes would seal our engagement, and the word no would ensure my father’s death. I will speak no words, for I am now mugon no gyo no ama-san.

The final words got caught in the courtier’s throat. He knew how this would displease the lord, as mugon no gyo meant “the discipline of not talking” and ama-san meant “nun.”

The courtier cleared his throat again and continued to read:

I have taken vows of silence and poverty, and I have shaved my head to show my dedication. I have moved to the temple on the highest mountain of the region. It is here that we feel closest to Buddha. I cannot marry you because I am already wed to the Universe. I cannot speak the answer to your question, because my vows will not allow it. Therefore, with no answer, you must release my father and I will return to the mountain temple to spend my life in devotion.

The daimyo was stunned. Though powerful, he knew better than to contradict the Great Buddha. He thought for a few moments and then made his response.

“I must commend you for your commitment,” he said. “I would not think to stop you from returning to the temple. Please do so.”

Sei bowed her head to hide the smile that might betray her sense of victory.

“But before I let you go,” the daimyo continued, “I require that you confirm, yet again, your promise of eternal silence.”

Sei bowed once more to indicate that she did. “Good,” continued the daimyo, “for if you ever speak again, I promise you this: your father’s life will be forfeit, and you will become my wife. And if your farm boy ever visits you at the temple, I will kill both him and your father and make you my wife. Is this clear?”

The daimyo let the proclamation sink in for a moment. “Do I have your word, your Holy Promise, that you shall never speak, nor ever see your farm boy, again?”

Sei stood silent for a moment, then nodded. The daimyo declared, “I am satisfied.”

On her way out of the castle, Sei saw Heisaku hidden in the wooden rafters. How much he loved her, to risk such a foolhardy gesture. Heisaku looked down with the saddest of eyes, for now he truly understood the gravity of the situation. Sei looked up at him and silently mouthed the phrase Aishiteru, “I love you.” Her glass- blower’s breath carried these words to the farm boy’s ears, and it was just as Sei had promised: if he listened very hard, he could hear her whispers upon the wind.

Yakichi and Sei were taken by armed escort to the mountain temple. Her father said goodbye, but Sei, of course, could say nothing. She cried silent tears and Yakichi promised to send her a gift as soon as he could. And then he was gone.

Soon the present arrived: a full set of glassblowing tools. The other ama-san were happy to allow her this luxury, as they were deeply devoted to beauty and saw Sei’s art as yet another way to serve Buddha. Besides, the objects would provide a source of income to help meet their modest needs. Even nuns know that while poverty is a virtue, it is terribly inconvenient.

Sei was allowed to convert an empty room of the temple, and every day she worked to create all manner of objects, from dinner- ware to artwork. The days became weeks and the weeks became months. Her work grew increasingly beautiful, as she perfected her techniques. And all the while, she was slowly crafting a statue in the likeness of Heisaku.

Sei would work on the statue each time she felt the need to speak, as a way to articulate her love. This meant that she worked on it daily. She created it lovingly, one minuscule section at a time. It began with the ball of his right foot. It expanded to the heel. Then, the toes. With each addition—ankle, lower shin, upper shin, knee—she would whisper while blowing the section. Aishiteru. The word was captured in the glass bubble. Aishiteru. “I love you.”

Miles away, Heisaku would feel the words in his ears. They would travel his spine and into his heart. He’d stop his plow and turn his eyes towards the distant mountain. And so it continued for years. Each time Sei felt the need to speak her love, she would blow a section of the statue, encasing her whispered breath in Heisaku’s hipbone, his finger, his shoulder, his ear . . . Aishiteru, aishiteru, aishiteru.

When the statue of the farm boy was completed, her love was not. So she started to create surroundings for him, beginning with a field of glass lilies in which he could stand. Later, when the lilies were completed, she would have to find something else. Perhaps, she thought, I will make a tree for my beloved to stand under. . . . Creating the leaves alone would provide enough work to make my life bearable.

And so her life went until one morning, like any other, when Sei was cleaning herself in the mountain stream. The cold water felt good on her skin but as she washed out her hair, she felt a sharp quick pain in her neck. Before she could even react, her arms and legs began to stiffen.

Sei had been bitten by insects many times, but this was the first time she had been stung by this particular species of wasp and, as fate would have it, she suffered a severe allergic reaction. Her throat tight- ened, her body would not respond, and she became unable to move. Her paralyzed body was washed down the stream until it became caught upon a rock. For two hours she lay there, as the intense cold of the stream seeped into every corner of her flesh.

Eventually, another ama-san found Sei and dragged her out of the water. Sei’s eyes were unresponsive and the cold water had dropped her pulse so low as to be undetectable. More ama-san were called but none could find any sign of life and, despite their vows of silence, a chorus of tears broke the still mountain air that morning.

Sei’s paralysis was total, but she could see everything, right up until the moment the nuns respectfully closed her eyelids, believing her to be dead. Even when she had warmed slightly, the venom still immobilized her. For three days, the ama-san prayed silently over her. Yakichi was alerted and came to bury the daughter who had sacrificed her life so that he might live.

The daimyo also came, to ensure that this was no hoax. He had heard that Sei was to be buried, which made him suspicious as it was a well-known fact that Buddhists were cremated so the flames would purify the soul. If flesh remained, the soul would still long for its existence on Earth and feel uneasy in Heaven. However it was Sei’s own written request that she be buried, because she wanted to exist forever as a part of the earth that Heisaku would continue to till.

Yakichi had brought Heisaku with him, but introduced him as a new glassblowing apprentice. Fear of the daimyo made this lie necessary. Who knew what he might do if he realized that this was the youth who had bested him for Sei’s affections?

The daimyo was the one who shut the lid to the coffin after ensuring that Sei was truly inside. Unable to move, Sei lay there listen- ing to his horrible voice, “Yes, I am satisfied. She really is dead.” Sei was thankful that her eyelids had been drawn shut, for how awful it would have been if her last sight had been this loathsome man’s face.

Sei heard the sound of the stretching ropes as her coffin was lowered into the ground and her body given to the earth. Yakichi threw the first shovelful of dirt into the grave and Heisaku threw the next. All the while, Sei listened as the dirt thudded against the lid of her coffin.

And then there was a miracle. She felt the poison in her veins wear thin and her body begin to loosen. She was able to open her eyes but saw only darkness. She could wiggle her fingers and toes but was not yet recovered enough to lift her arms or legs, so she could not bang on the lid. But she knew that if she yelled, those above would be able to hear her. She could feel the ability creeping back into her throat, and felt elation that she would not die after all. All she had to do was yell. . . .

Then Sei remembered her promise. She would become the wife of the daimyo if she spoke even a word to save herself. Her father would be executed, and Heisaku as well. The daimyo was right there with them, so there could be no denying that she had broken her word. There could be no denying that Heisaku had visited the temple.

And so, Sei shut her mouth and allowed herself to be buried alive. She listened to the dirt being thrown into her grave, with the sound becoming more muffled as every shovelful piled up above her. When the sound stopped altogether, she knew that the hole had been filled and that she was sealed into the earth.

Above the ground, Yakichi and Heisaku cried at the unfairness of Sei’s life. She had given up so much to protect the ones she loved, and this was her reward. As for the daimyo, he cared nothing about the woman who had been buried before him; he was simply satisfied to know that she had not tricked him once again.

As he’d never been to the temple before and it was unlikely he would ever return, the daimyo decided to explore the grounds before returning to his castle. The ama-san tried to prompt him along a path that would keep him away from Sei’s workshop but they were unsuccessful. When he pushed his way into the shop, he was astonished to see the glass likeness of Yakichi’s new “apprentice” standing there in a half-finished field of lilies. The daimyo was no fool: he immediately understood that this was a statue of the farm boy whom Sei had loved so well, and thus he also knew that the boy pretending to be the apprentice was Sei’s great love.

Light poured in through the temple windows and lit the statue. The very beauty of it, the care and detail, mocked the daimyo. He picked up a wooden rod that lay upon the workbench and swore that he would destroy the statue first, and then destroy the real boy. The daimyo lunged forward, swinging the rod like a scythe to cut through the glass lilies that surrounded the statue. The swipe was mighty, and broke through dozens in a single stroke.

There was an enormous blast as glass petals and stems erupted everywhere, riding a massive wave of sound. All the whispers of love that Sei had encased in her lilies came rushing forth simultaneously. Their force was so great that the glass shards traveled outward as if on the wind of a hurricane. They cut the daimyo completely, disfiguring him beyond recognition. The sound was so thunderous that he was deafened and all his hair turned instantly white.

The noise exited the workshop and spread out across the sky over Japan. People in every corner of the country could hear it, and later all agreed that it was the most beautiful thing they’d ever heard. It sounded like pure love.

The daimyo lived, but as a hobbled little half-man, scarred and beaten. His own anger and jealousy had done him in. He no longer had the spirit for intimidation and never again attempted to harm Heisaku or Yakichi.

Heisaku and Yakichi, for their part, loaded the glass statue into a cart and took it back to their village. Heisaku moved into the old man’s house as the son he never had, and they grew to be great friends. After all, they were bound by the love of the woman that they had both lost.

For the rest of their years, the glass statue sat in the middle of their house. It made Heisaku feel somewhat awkward to see his like- ness every day, but it served a great purpose. When their grief for Sei’s loss became overpowering, Heisaku or Yakichi would break off a small section of the statue—a fingertip, a lock of hair, the petal of a remaining lily.

Aishiteru, aishiteru, aishiteru. From each broken pocket of glass, Sei’s voice would whisper out to ease their sorrow."

...of the Moomin mind...

After much deliberation... and Moomin like thinking, i have somehow created an order for art flow and fashion development...through an excitement hierarchy.

This hierarchy consisting of which project i should do first to the last project being an ill-advised inspirational piece of bullshit. However rather than following a normal pyramid like order and starting from the bottom, i have stupidly thought it would be a good idea to start at the top...yes yes Kimmy is stupid, otherwise i will piss myself through sheer creative juice overload. So technically, i'm calming myself down as well as ocd-ing myself, as per usual, and basically rambling on about things that don't even really concern me...hmmmm...

...i promise the next post will make more sense and will be more interesting...

...this is the sad path of the Moomin...having an over-reactive mind...

...and wanting to constantly snack on sesame cookies and cups of tea whilst snuggling up with the lover, Sir Davis, to watch I-Robot...which is what i am abandoning this post to do...like i said...forgive me...i have a cold.

...has lead to creative bombardment...

...

...Well...

...I'm in a pickle.

As i stated in a previous entry, i am constantly inspired, which is brilliant...however...the downfall of this is that i have so many bloody ideas and haven't the faintest clue where i should start as i am too excited by everything. I'd like to do more Illustrations whilst i am in the drawing mood, but there are so many collections i want to start planning and sketches that need to be on paper, Arrghh...what to do...

...what to do.

It really doesn't help that i can't stop watching this damn Baldur's Gate 2 walkthrough on Youtube (yes a true geek at heart i am)...i should be listening to some tuneages or have a film on in the background so artwork can commence...i am a naughty cheesepot Kimmy...

...tut tut.

...inspirational movement...

/MINNAPALMQVIST

Minna Palmqvist has a Bachelor's degree from an artisan clothing school in Finland, plus a Master's degree from Konstfack school of art, crafts and design in Stockholm, Sweden.

A Finnish designer based in Stockholm, her desire in fashion is to combine fashion norms with everyday social reality. Her current collection, "Intimately Social" questions our individual battle in being accepted for our body colliding with our own intimate and physical self.

The label, uniquely, doesn't work in seasonal change but adds incessantly, working on minute details little by little. It has many variations since 2007 but still continues to be an on-going progress.

Minna Palmqavist's inspiration comes from contradiction and imperfection, haunting traits that each person undeniably comes across at some stage of their life.

What i love about her is that she shares the same love/hate relationship, as i do, with Fashion.

It's the system around it, the commercialism and the "who you should know" business that is the massive downfall of wanting to be a designer. However she seems to be as stubborn as i... we're both fueled by this passionate relationship and care enough to keep at it, working against the bullshit to create and express through our own art. It should be about value and individuality not quantity and a crowd of sheep strutting down the street.

Minna Palmqvist currently operates on a small scale, and a lot of the garments are available only upon request.

...and yet finding a new...

...designer

O D E U R

When it comes to simplicity i most definitely high five O D E U R.

Inspired by Nouveau Riche (also known as 'New Money')

"Where The Shimmer Lies" is their S/S 11 Unisex Collection,

which comes across as a style quest for those who over indulge in the idea of fashion yet who struggle to reveal themselves with their newly

achieved wealth.

Unexpected pattern cutting clashed with the use of a bright yet neutral colour palette, in contrast to their more darker scales in previous garments, dominates the style in this collection.

Metallic copper - now seen as the new Gold, is used as

an accessory structure, breaking up the fabric to create a defined characterized silhouette. Quite unique as the garments are so fitting as a unisex collection.

I love the stillness it creates, clean yet creased in personality...it's almost delicately futuristic.

...or walking into frightening splendour...

Oh little boutique...

...Oh little shop of wonders...

...Oh Collard Manson.

I have awed over this little treat that Nottinghams' Lace Market has offered for many a year to me, 4 in fact since i moved here and finally i belong.

I remember the first attempt to walk past the little fashion boutique however was pulled, and soon after the gawping expression on my face became apparent to my friends...I was not going to leave willingly. I walked in to find designers of bowing worthy, Vivienne Westwood, Jean Paul Gaultier (the most amazing umbrella with black laced pleats), to local and upcoming designers/artists such as Daisy Thomas and her beaded beauty accessories & Nicola Donovan an artist who envelopes herself in sculpture and figurative/conceptual clothing.

Clearly i was having a sweet ass time prowling through jewellery splayed on a vintage desk, leafing through art books, admiring vintage looking homeware, touching the weird pattern-cut clothes. So i did the only thing that could be done...bought a necklace and asked if there were any job vacancies. Not only were there no jobs, but a huge cv pile...

...i tried again the following month, then year...and the one after...

...then on one pretty average day in May this year i saw it...POSITION FOR SALES ASSISTANT AVAILABLE! I went straight to my flat, printed off a CV and was back within 20 minutes handing over my letter and babbling on about ridiculousness.

Now here i am! Surrounded by it all. The 'it' being glorious amounts of awesomeness that i get to stock and touch and arrange, then re-arrange. What's also amazing is that it's brought back my creativity.

I am now constantly inspired & it feels bloody brilliant!

http://www.collardmanson.com/

...entrance to a book...

So.

As it has been a tremendous, exaggerated long time since i last wrote in this blog, properly, i thought it high time to also update the becomings of "The Perfect Doll".

Would not entirely blame any of you if you have forgotten about it, but to those who keep asking...it has a final prologue, i will not re-edit or look at it again until i finish the rest...about bloody time Kimberley. To those who don't know, I've been writing this book, book one of a trilogy, for three years now. It's actually bloody hard to do, but finally i am making good progress.

Due to the random inspiration fellow friends Miss Lilycrab & Miss Young bestowed upon me a few months back, whilst watching 'Criminal Minds', don't ask, i kind of conjured this dark depth of writing, which in turn was going to become part of a short story. I'm not quite sure if it was the intense silence in the room at that time (an apparent must if the program is EVER on) or the intense glazed concentration that had taken over my friends, but whatever i wrote that day poured out of me like some mad poem a demon needed to piss! Eerie indeed. However as the paragraph formed i realized how fitting the nature of the content was for "The Perfect Doll", especially for one character i had in mind. Well anyway here it is...

“Let my heart be still a moment –

And this mystery explore”

Edgar Allan Poe

Prologue

It came swiftly. The soft scream emitting from Odicia’s tinted berry lips; beads of sweat beginning to form on her upper lip. She was sure her body would lose control, shaking, as descent of the anxiety began to sink in. She tightened her already strong grip on the marble wall, trying to steady herself before the blow reached her. Her hair was damp, sticking to her cheeks, thin, wiry black lines trying to mask her ivory skin in witchlike claws. It came closer.

She took a glimpse over the balcony, at the city below. Silence. A furtive, noxious blanket rested in the form of clouds, whispering sweet nothings of deep slumber and dreams.

Nausea crept in, churning, causing Odicia to shudder violently. She was going to be thoroughly punished this time. She knew she had done wrong, maybe not understanding the extent of just how wrong, but she had.

A strong blast of wind whipped at her face, stinging as her sweat suddenly iced dry. The air grew still as she counted the dull steps that approached from his chamber. One, Two, Three, somehow matching the steady beat of her heart. Four, Five, Six. The steps became unexpectedly louder, each thud creating a shiver along her eyelids as she waited, ferociously patient, mumbling the dawn of Celo’s prayer.

The steps had stopped. A heat reverberated off of her back. A rasp and heavy breathing brushed against the skin of her neck. She began to feel faint. She noticed her hands no longer gripped the marble wall but lay still, glowing ghostly in the moonlight.

A growing warmth met her. The heat pushed, pressing her against the wall in a ravenous thrust, the touch of his skin almost singeing her. She cried out. A cavernous laugh fell on her. She instantly stiffened, forgetting her place. A large, rough hand began to feel its way from her waist. It crept higher through the fabric of her robe. Touching its way. Invading. The other joined its brother in their pursuit. They rested on her breasts and grasped them. She gasped waiting for the pain, but surprisingly to her, none came. The hands moved again. They worked higher, resting on her neck, each finger caressing the nape. She closed her eyes. Tears rolling down her ivory cheeks, she bit her lip trying to stifle her sobbing. Hard lips began to singe her shoulder blade, bristles of hair scratching her skin. She sighed in a weak euphoria. She yearned this, to be devoured with his despicable lust and yet she knew she didn’t deserve such kindness. The lips kissed slowly to her right ear, sucking at her ear lobe. Odicia shivered; disgusted that she felt his pleasure pour into her own. The caressing fingers suddenly gripped her throat, pinching at the oesophagus. Her eyes big, she scrambled terrified. Clawing at the hand she became weak. She choked as her legs caved under her, pathetic under the strength of his hand. The night light shimmered before her. Hazy...cloudy. Her eyes fell heavy, watering furiously. The hand let go, the laughing bringing Odicia back to reality. She gulped the night air hungrily. There was a burning in her chest. After her fill she doubled over weary and confused. Was that all her punishment was to be, she thought. No, her heart whispered. She stood up with difficulty, using the wall for support yet again. She took deep breaths as she skimmed the city below, dead to the world, tears filling her eyes. Laughter rang in her ears.

“Turn to me,” he said.

Let me know what you think ^ ^