So here’s what I’m doing.  I’m renovating my back bedroom.  It’s the last bedroom that needs to be redone, and I will be psyched to have all the rooms–save for the bathroom–finished on the second floor.  My house is old, so the typical things that need to be done in each room are taping and spackling, painting, refinishing floors, and running electrical to add outlets.  But before all of this can happen, there’s the wallpaper scraping.  And after the wallpaper scraping, there’s more wallpaper scraping.  And just when you think you’re done, you remember that the ceilings have wallpaper on them, too.  And then you wonder, “Why the fuck would anyone WALLPAPER THE CEILING?”  (I’m told that this was common practice earlier in the 20th century, but really, unless you’re suffering from a severe case of poor judgment or recently had a lobotomy, why on earth would you choose to wallpaper the ceiling?)

So when I removed the last bit of wallpaper from the ceiling two weekends ago, I thought I was done.  And if I had had the good sense to leave the closet doors shut, I would have been.  But then my inner perfectionist started nagging at me and insisted that I investigate the state of the walls in the closets.  It wasn’t pretty.  (See picture on left.  Creepy, right?  And that’s the “good” closet.)  The walls had some strange stains on them, and to be perfectly honest, they smelled kind of funny, which is saying a lot coming from someone with a terrible sense of smell.  Somehow I had missed these two points during the last 5 years when the closets were jam-packed with crap that I really didn’t need to hang onto anyway.  (Seriously, who needs a dual cassette player anymore?)

So I’m sure you can guess what happened next.  I got the scraper out and went back to work.

The thing is that, as tedious as wallpaper scraping is, and as much as I curse up a storm when I hit those really tough sections that require a little more elbow grease, it’s really satisfying work.  It’s physical, I get to listen to NPR’s weekend programming while I’m doing it, I let my mind wander and contemplate how I’m going to invent the world’s first geothermal kegerator when I’m not listening to NPR, and in the end, I can see the progress I’ve made.  And that’s the best part.

I think working on a house is really good for the soul.  Peeling back the layers of wallpaper, you get a glimpse into the history of the house and the people who lived there.  And when your house is almost 100 years old, like mine, that’s pretty cool.  You get to consider your place in its history and the histories of all the people that lived there, and you feel connected to them in some small way by sharing this commonality of place.  And then there’s the really cool part–you get to leave your own mark.  It’s a microcosm of the universe for sure.

So that’s what I’m doing, slowly but surely.  I like to think of it as exfoliating my house.  I envision it taking a deep breath as I bring the walls back down to their plaster, removing paper as one would slough off dead skin cells from one’s body, feeling clean and renewed in the process.  Today I really did remove the last of the wallpaper, so I can put the scraper away for another year or so.  The first round of taping and spackling is done, and I’m well on my way to leaving my mark.  It feels pretty good.

Of course, this kind of thinking is totally useless, especially if you’d prefer to spend your days doing something productive, instead of just balling yourself up in a corner and feeling like you’ve never had an original thought in your life.  But I think it does point to a larger question:  What’s my motivation for making stuff?

As I perused Etsy, I found myself in an increasingly consumerist mindset:  ”I must make stuff that people will want to buy.”  I didn’t realize this was where my brain had gone until a couple days later, when I was obsessively checking my shop to see if any new people had viewed my items.  (And speaking of which, there are a couple of new ones up there–a reclaimed bead necklace and some hand-printed notecards (shown here)–so check them out.) Selling stuff has never been my main motivation for making stuff, but just the fact that I had a shop now seemed to be pulling me in that direction.  And of course, now that there was a shop–and this blog–there was a pressure to come up with clever new items to make so that I could put them up there and update my blog.  I was trying to come up with new ideas, then I would get anxious because I wasn’t coming up with them, and then I’d feel pressure to update the blog, and then I’d try to come up with more things to make, and on and on it went.  Not helpful.  As many studies on the topic have reinforced–and as any creative type knows–pressure and anxiety are two of creativity’s biggest enemies.  Luckily, this condition only persisted for a couple of days before I realized that it was dumb.

So, now that I’ve remembered that I like to make things simply for my own enjoyment, the creative juices appear to be flowing a little better again.  The only problem is–once I’ve finished making this stuff, what do I do with it all?  Sometimes I feel guilty because I feel like I’m just contributing to the vast wasteland of “stuff’ there already is in this world.  Does the world really need another candleholder?  Really cool linoleum block printed notecards?  I recently picked up a whole bunch of felt at The Resource Exchange (even though I had no idea what to do with it) simply because it looked useful.  I’ve been leaving it out in my dining room because I’m convinced that if I stare at it for long enough, my felt muse will tell me what to do with it.  (And by the way, if you see my felt muse, please tell her to GET ON IT ALREADY.)

I’ve run into this problem with paintings over the years, and even though I’ve sold a few and given a bunch away, I still have a small museum’s worth of works that have no chance of ever making into the rotation on my home’s walls.  I also frequently find myself working on the same painting for years because I have no clear plan for what to do with it when it’s done.  The painting below is a perfect example.  I was working on it when I moved into my house almost 6 years ago, and I’m still working on it.  It’s big, and I have no idea where I’m going to put it when I’m done.

I’m a little worried that I’ve unnecessarily burdened myself with this Etsy shop, making a hobby and stress reliever inch that much closer to “work.”  But I’m hoping that my experience of going down the Etsy rabbit hole last week will turn out to have proven helpful in readjusting my mindset and reminding me why I create.  Now, as long as I can stay off of Pinterest, I think I’ll be fine.

I used to love cats.  I even subscribed to Cat Fancy magazine in middle school.  But now I have come to loathe them, and I am not the least bit sad when my German Shepherd catches one in the backyard.  Really.  I still like other people’s cats (okay, except maybe Elsa, who’s just plain ornery), but the feral cats need to go.

Tangentially related, I have launched a project for 2012.  Inspired by TubaDan’s song-a-month project in 2011, I have decided to complete an illustration a month for 2012.  My plan is to do all the illustrations in pen and ink on high-quality watercolor paper.  I have managed to get the first month in just under the wire, and I feel like it needs a bit of explanation.  But first, here it is.

When I was a kid, we would often travel between our house in Bethlehem, PA and my grandparents’ house just outside of Reading, PA.  As you can imagine, this hour-long trip is really boring for child, so my mom would frequently sing songs in the car to keep me amused.  One of my favorite songs centered around Mr. Dunderbeck, a portly butcher who had invented a sausage machine that produced some of the best sausage around to the detriment of the local quadruped population. Here are the lyrics (as I remember them):

There was a big fat Dutchman and his name was Dunderbeck.
He had the finest sausage meat and sauerkraut and speck.
He had the finest butcher shop that every would be seen.
And he wished to take a patent on his sausage meat machine.

CHORUS
Oh, Dunderbeck, oh, Dunderbeck, how could you be so mean?
To ever have invented the sausage meat machine.
Now all the dogs and pussycats will never more be seen,
for we’ll grind them up for sausage meat in Dunderbeck’s machine.

Oh, one day a little boy came walkin’ in the store.
He wished to buy some sausage meat and eggs a half a score.
And while he was a’waitin’, he whistled up a tune,
and the meat machine began to hop and dance around the room.

CHORUS

Oh, one day the meat machine, well it refused to go.
So Dunderbeck got in it, the reason for to know.
His wife she had a nightmare, was walkin’ in her sleep,
and she gave the crank a hell of a yank and Dunderbeck was meat.

CHORUS

In hindsight, it’s kind of a gruesome story, but I loved the song.  So I decided to illustrate it.  I’ve been reading this great book, Floating Worlds: The Letters of Edward Gorey and Peter F. Neumeyer.  It’s quite amazing.  I’m a big Edward Gorey fan, ever since I read the pop-up book, The Dwindling Party (now out of print), as a child.  I’ve been very inspired by how prolific he was, as well as how much he let his art spill over into his everyday life, illustrating numerous envelopes and other ephemera to friends and family members.  So as I’m sure you’ll notice, this illustration is quite Goreyesque.  (However, as he was very fond of cats, I doubt the subject of any illustration of his would depict a gruesome fate for the feline set.)

Given my current frustration with the cats in my neighborhood, this seemed a fitting subject for January.  Check back next month for the next installment of Illustrate 2012.

While we were planning the wedding, a number of people commented that I should be blogging about all the stuff we were doing to make our wedding as sustainable as possible, so that other people could see how it can be done and be inspired to do the same.  The problem was that, while that sounded great in theory, I really didn’t have a whole lot of extra time to be doing something like that because, well, you know, I was planning a wedding.  So instead, I figured I’d save it all up until some later date to share with the world.  That day has come.  I invite you to take a little trip down recent-memory lane with me and see how we put together a handmade wedding that was about us–not stuff.  (Fair Warning: This post is a little long, so if weddings aren’t your thing, you might want to stop right here.  And if you don’t want the details but like wedding eye candy, you can just scroll through the pictures.)

Let’s start with the venue.  Finding a venue was both tricky and exceedingly easy for us.  Since we knew we wanted to do things a certain way, which included choosing our own sustainable caterer and providing out own locally-produced alcohol, a lot of the traditional places were immediately out of the question.  This meant we had to do a little more research on our own for non-traditional venues.  Thanks to PhillySpaceFinder, we were turned on to The 5th Side, an amazing converted brewery turned soap and candle company turned coppersmith shop turned trolley repair shop turned performance venue.  When we went to see the space, it was still very much under construction, and it was packed to the gills with all sorts of junk, some of which was still left over from the previous owners.  But were we going to be able to choose our own caterer?  Check.  Could we bring our own alcohol?  Check.  Was there a firepit?  Check.  Was it reasonably priced?  Check.  Plus, the building itself was recycled, in a manner of speaking.  It was the only place we visited, and we decided it was perfect.

Next was the caterer.  We had a small budget, but we knew we wanted the food to be local and seasonal, and since we wanted to make our reception zero-waste, we needed to find a caterer who was open to recycling and composting.  The local, seasonal, and composting requirements substantially limit your options, but for someone who struggles with decisions when there are too many options (that’s me), this turned out to be a blessing in disguise.  And luckily, the fall is just about the perfect time to have a local, seasonal wedding because of the bounty of food that’s in season.  Additionally, we wanted the flexibility to ask our guests to bring pie (instead of having wedding cake), and some caterers get upset about not being able to control all aspects of the event.  In the end, there was only one caterer that met all of our wacky requirements (and budget), so we went with Cosmic Catering.  (They were awesome.)

And then there were the save-the-dates and invitations.  We debated the merits of doing everything electronically, but in the end, we went with printed pieces because (1) I wanted to make them and (2) it seems like people just aren’t so great with responding to electronic invitations these days.  You may have already seen them on this site, but here they are again (with the wedding program added in).  I had these printed by a local screenprinter, Sire Press, and they were printed on French Paper, which is produced using 100% hydroelectric power.  The Save-the-Dates and RSVP cards were postcards to minimize paper usage, and the envelope was made out of 100% post-consumer paper.

The thought of dress shopping made me somewhat ill because (1) they’re overpriced, (2) the people at the dress stores try to make it seem like this is one of the most important decisions of your life (it’s not), (3) after a while, all the dresses start to look the same and (4) I really dislike strapless dresses.  (Say it with me, people:  ”Most people do not look good in strapless dresses.”)  I went once to try on dresses and decided that I either needed to find a good seamstress or start looking for something handmade/vintage on Etsy.  And then I remembered that I have a mother.  Thankfully, she decided that she was up to the challenge, including figuring out how to work in a swath of fabric we would remove from her own wedding dress that had been hand-embroidered by my late grandmother.  We got the fabric from the Garment District in NYC, and the dress ended up being perfect.

I made my own veil out of french netting and crafted a fascinator from leftover dress fabric and some feathers.  For Ben’s part, he used one of his dad’s old three-piece suits that had just been hanging out in the attic, and he borrowed a bowtie from high school friend.

When it came to ring shopping, I felt just about the same I did with dress shopping.  Luckily, we have Bario-Neal here in Philadelphia.  They use reclaimed metals and ethically sourced gemstones in all the jewelry they create, and they’re just great people.  I had heirloom diamonds that I wanted to incorporate into my band, and I loved the idea that they would make my band out of reclaimed metal.  Ben actually had his great-grandfather’s wedding ring, so in the end, we both ended up with recycled rings.

The largest amount of crafting was related to the actual event.  We spent the month leading up to the wedding collecting all sorts of stuff from friends, yard sales, the trash, and The Resource Exchange.  This is where it helps that neither my fiancé nor I work a 9-5 job.  (Although I suppose if we did, we would’ve just started all of this sooner.  Maybe?)  I made tablecloths and table runners, amassed mason jars for vases and lighting, collected lounge furniture from friends, made hanging decorations with friends, filled the (recycled and hand-printed) favor bags with tea, created the wedding certificate, and bought tons of pumpkins and gourds from a local farm.  Ben picked up several carloads of chrysanthemums for free from Habitat for Humanity’s ReStore and built our lovely wedding arbor (shown below).  Friends and family built the firepit, helped make signage from recycled cardboard, donated gin from a local distillery for the gimlets, made us a sweet wedding banner (also shown below with the arbor), volunteered to provide the music, and made pies.

Some pictures of various stuff we made follow. I’m most proud of the wedding certificate, which I did with watercolors and pen and ink.  It was signed by all of the guests, making it such a wonderful document to help us remember the day.  And, yes, you caught me–that last photo doesn’t really feature anything in it that we made (unless you count the bouquet and boutonniere), but it’s one of my absolute favorites from the wedding.

It might require doing things differently to plan a wedding outside of the wedding-industrial complex, but I’m here to tell you that it can be done, and it’s so worth it.  If someone asked me today if I’d do it all over again the same way, I would enthusiastically say yes.  We didn’t have to go into debt to get married.  We didn’t have to compromise our values to throw a good party.  Our wedding ended up being about us.  And after all, isn’t that what it should all be about?

I find that making things is a real stress reliever for me, in addition to the satisfaction I get from being able to point to something and say, “I made that.”  I also like being able to handcraft things I need or want instead of feeding into our mass-produced consumer culture.  It felt good to give gifts that had been crafted out of reused materials from Ben’s house or the newly-opened Resource Exchange, and it was gratifying to see people’s positive responses to receiving these gifts (either that or they were just being nice).  It seems like the handmade/crafting movement has really been taking off in recent years, so what I’m doing isn’t really anything new, but hopefully it will be a little inspiring to whomever happens to wander by this blog.

I’m looking forward to getting going.  I hope you’ll join me on the journey.