Dale Chihuly at Phipps Conservatory

One of the reasons I love living in Pittsburgh is that I can use nearly every special event at Phipps Conservatory as blog fodder. I wrote about their mythological topiary display awhile ago, remember? This is an entirely different shebang.

Dale Chihuly is a world-class glass artist, and Pittsburgh has been lucky enough to host his show for the past year or so. It was the second-to-last day when I remembered that I really wanted to see it, and I spent the afternoon hitting the refresh button to order tickets; the server was so busy, we almost didn't make it.



The two above pictures were taken in the room that hosts the plants of Thailand. It didn't matter what room we were in; it felt like another universe, with these shining plants sprouting up everywhere, having their own little parties.





This chandelier was one of my favorites. The water in the pond is really jet black, and the red lilies looked like they had just fallen on the water, so naturally. The colors are so bold, I couldn't help but love the whole room. Here are some more shots of those lovely hues:








I thought the multicolored installments were especially pretty:





But I have to be honest; the muted colors, as always, were my favorites. It's the Arthur Rackham-lover in me. What can I say? I say: I think this sculptor is more than a sculptor. I think he knows magic.









Obviously Dale Chihuly is inspired by organic shapes (like all of the artists I love) and after seeing all of these sculptures and being around real, growing things and walking on dirt, I am so ready for spring! The last thing I saw was this chandelier that was hung in the main lobby, and it's tropical colors stood out so bright against the white smudge of winter that I couldn't help but get hopeful that spring is, indeed, coming.



There are several more pictures in my flickr set, and if you simply type "Chihuly" into the search box, lots of very wonderful (and I admit, much more professional-looking) photos come up.

Shoes for the Sylvan (and Eco-Savvy)

Think spring. Think it. And send it my way!

Found at Planet Shoes, these elfin sandals come in green, brown, orange, and (strangely) pink. US $120

Goblin Fruit: Winter 2008

I know it's been up for awhile, but I just got around to reading it and I am just astounded at the talent in this winter's issue of Goblin Fruit. Go take a read if you haven't yet; it's well worth an hour. If you don't have an hour, I have three recommendations for you.

Jennifer Crow's Twelve Swans is told from the point of view of the princess in the tale of the same name. Ms. Crow's versatility amazes me in this selection; she picks the right words every time, and each section's form changes with the part of the tale; I love section 5: Pyre, in which an intense rhythm reflects the desperation with which the princess is weaving the last nettle coat.

Step (and Turn) by J.C. Runolfson makes the heroine from The Twelve Dancing Princesses into the villainous stepmother from any number of Grimm tales in which the queen is made to dance herself to cinders in shoes of hot iron. She tells her story as the shoes are being heated, and blesses and curses.

My very favorite is Revisiting the Maiden's Tower by Stacey Cowley, in which Rapunzel expresses her only wish: to be left alone at the top of her tower. The witch, the prince (whom she calls a monster) and all others are spurned for the silence and stories of her own company, and Ms. Cowley paints a violent figure who has no regret for those she has sent to their doom and death in the moat below.

Several of the poems can be listened to, as read aloud by their poets; I suggest To the Royal Society of Cryptozoologists by Caitlyn Paxon.

Faery Knitting: A Fairy Tale podcast!

Long have I searched for a really good fairytale podcast. So long! I love podcasts, and I listen to podcasts about everything from knitting to medieval history to science. What about my love for fairy tales? There were none to fill this niche. Luckily, when I posted about this sad fact on the Ravelry group that I moderate, called (guess what) Folklore and Fairy Tales, one responder said that she had indeed just begun a podcast called Faery Knitting.

Now, lest those of who you do not knit be put off by the name, rest assured that Erin (known online as Spinnerin) does not spend most of the podcast talking about knitting. In fact, knitting blends into the myriad of folky arts that she enjoys. The woman is living in a fairy tale, I tell you: she makes cheese, keeps goats and rabbits, spins, and knits - and did I mention that she is a wonderful reader? She really is. And her occasional in-story personal commentary makes me laugh.

So far, she's got four episodes out: Kate Crackernuts, Donkeyskin, The Happy Family, and East of the Sun and West of the Moon. As I said, she has a great reading voice and is a pleasure to listen to. She plans on putting out another episode soon, so start subscribing and show your support for a folky, fairy podcast. You can listen at the Faery Knitting blog or subscribe on iTunes.

A Bloggers' Silent Poetry Reading - Briar Rose

In honor of St. Brigid's Day, A Bloggers' Silent Poetry Reading:

Briar Rose (Sleeping Beauty)

Consider
a girl who keeps slipping off,
arms limp as old carrots,
into the hypnotist's trance,
into a spirit world
speaking with the gift of tongues.
She is stuck in the time machine,
suddenly two years old sucking her thumb,
as inward as a snail,
learning to talk again.
She's on a voyage.
She is swimming further and further back,
up like a salmon,
struggling into her mother's pocketbook.
Little doll child,
come here to Papa.
Sit on my knee.
I have kisses for the back of your neck.
A penny for your thoughts, Princess.
I will hunt them like an emerald.
Come be my snooky
and I will give you a root.
That kind of voyage,
rank as honeysuckle.

Once
a king had a christening
for his daughter Briar Rose
and because he had only twelve gold plates
he asked only twelve fairies
to the grand event.
The thirteenth fairy,
her fingers as long and thin as straws,
her eyes burnt by cigarettes,
her uterus an empty teacup,
arrived with an evil gift.
She made this prophecy:
The princess shall prick herself
on a spinning wheel in her fifteenth year
and then fall down dead.
Kaputt!
The court fell silent.
The king looked like Munch's Scream.
Fairies' prophecies,
in times like those,
held water.
However the twelfth fairy
had a certain kind of eraser
and thus she mitigated the curse
changing that death
into a hundred-year sleep
The king ordered every spinning wheel
exterminated and exorcized.
Briar Rose grew to be a goddess
and each night the king
bit the hem of her gown
to keep her safe.
He fastened the moon up
with a safety pin
to give her perpetual light
He forced every male in the court
to scour his tongue with Bab-o
lest they poison the air she dwelt in.
Thus she dwelt in his odor.
Rank as honeysuckle.

On her fifteenth birthday
she pricked her finger
on a charred spinning wheel
and clocks stopped.
Yes indeed. She went to sleep.
The king and queen went to sleep,
the courtiers, the flies on the wall
The fire in the hearth grew still
and the roast meat stopped crackling.
The trees turned into metal
and the dog became china.
They all lay in a trance,
each a catatonic
stuck in the time machine.
Even the frogs were zombies.
Only a bunch of briar roses grew
forming a great wall of tacks
around the castle.
Many princes
tried to get through the brambles
for they had heard much of Briar Rose
but they had not scoured their tongues
so they were held by the thorns
and thus were crucified.
In due time
a hundred years passed
and a prince got through.
The briars parted as if for Moses
and the prince found the tableau intact.
He kissed Briar Rose
and she woke up crying:
Daddy! Daddy!
Presto! She's out of prison!
She married the prince
and all went well
except for the fear -
the fear of sleep.

Briar Rose
was an insomniac . . .
She could not nap
or lie in sleep
without the court chemist
mixing her some knock-out drops
and never in the prince's presence.
If it is to come, she said,
sleep must take me unawares
while I am laughing or dancing
so that I do not know that brutal place
where I lie down with cattle prods,
the hole in my cheek open.
Further, I must not dream
for when I do I see the table set
and a faltering crone at my place,
her eyes burnt by cigarettes
as she eats betrayal like a slice of meat.

I must not sleep
for while asleep I'm ninety
and think I'm dying.
Death rattles in my throat
like a marble.
I wear tubes like earrings.
I lie as still as a bar of iron.
You can stick a needle
through my kneecap and I won't flinch.
I'm all shot up with Novocain.
This trance girl
is yours to do with.
You could lay her in a grave,
an awful package,
and shovel dirt on her face
and she'd never call back: Hello there!
But if you kissed her on the mouth
her eyes would spring open
and she'd call out: Daddy! Daddy!
Presto!
She's out of prison.

There was a theft.
That much I am told.
I was abandoned.
That much I know.
I was forced backward.
I was forced forward.
I was passed hand to hand
like a bowl of fruit.
Each night I am nailed into place
and I forget who I am.
Daddy?
That's another kind of prison.
It's not the prince at all,
but my father
drunkely bent over my bed,
circling the abyss like a shark,
my father thick upon me
like some sleeping jellyfish.

What voyage this, little girl?
This coming out of prison?
God help -
this life after death?


by Anne Sexton
from the book - Tranformations