He tried to take her life. Not her living body life; the breath and skin and bones. More life as she was living it, at that time. He wanted all of it, wanted the blueprint to etch his mark into; to copy her like a new generation Stepford wife. Conquer and devour; although this would not be crystal clear to her until much later.

He lived in an attic. The attic belonged to a house once funeral home, now gathering place for artists. The many rooms were a montage of the past; jagged reminders of death and grief and the visceral job of stitching between the two.

Although she saw him very much as just a boy, she secretly called him the Boatman. He referred to the urban strand of midtown as an island. He didn’t say but implied that he was the only way off the island. This was unbelievable to the girl and part of her knew liking him was a mistake.

But that part had not developed the muscle required to change things. Her life and thoughts were jumbled. As a person, heart and soul, she was still in development. This rendered her vulnerable.

Her days were like this. She made jewelry and waited tables in a nearby cafe. Work was home. A structure to hide inside. Lock the doors, draw the blinds.

She didn’t own much and especially not a camera. On her days off, she took the jewelry to a nearby copy shop. Another boy worked there. Someone who seemed kind and interested in helping.

He would carefully lay necklaces, earrings and bracelets on the smooth glass of the copier, pull the flap closed and these copies were what she used to make a rough brochure.

The Boatman knew about this. He started going with her to the copy shop where he would glare at and speak harshly to the kind boy. Afterwards, he would do the same to her.

And all the time her developing muscle was sending her messages. When she didn’t listen, it punched its way through her dreams. Took her by the arm and led her to the rooms below the attic. Showed what was left of her; the Boatman standing bloated and content in the corner proclaiming, ‘there is no way off the island now’.

She stopped going to the copy chop. She stopped answering the phone. Used work as an excuse. Changed the locks on her life. And packed once again and drove once again, leaving the island behind in her wake and trying not to look back.



A Tribal Necklace.

Inspired by jewelry in a copy machine and a city in decline. Living among the ruins of a once great place but to me, it was even greater then. How fortunate I was to live there. Life stirred. I was part of a tribe. It was absolutely horrible and beautiful and I made so many mistakes. But I would not have changed any of it because it has provided the deepest and most lasting influence to my work and to me as a person.

The centerpiece of this handmade necklace measures 1&1/2″ wide by almost 2″. The bezel is handmade, carved and colored. Inside are two pieces of copies as made 24 years ago.

The chain is fabricated from bronze metal and is asymmetrical. Vintage jewelry pieces hang from the chain on one side.

The chain measures 17″ in length.

This special memory comes creatively packaged with a small handmade card. Next day shipping and complimentary postage.


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