Clowns, shell-art, and the pinnacle of thrifthorror
Since we began this community, two of our great themes have been clowns and shell art. These two central motifes have informed all our posts, knowingly or not. It may look like a picture of a kitten bleeding from its facial orifices, but inside, we're thinking "ah, but see, the red makes it into a clown!"
The clown calls to us on a primal level. We ask ourselves, "Are we the clown?" or "I'm glad I'm not the clown." And then, we go forth and MAKE clowns. Sometimes, we make them out of lumps of brightly-colored chewing gum, fused together and tarted up with glitterpaint.
And then we show them to our infant son, who screams "Nono!" and tries to tear the thing apart, but only partially dislodges his pompom. We thought painting hearts on the things cheeks would help, but no, they've become carbuncles, rounded blood-filled lumps drawn tight by lips that seem to draw the fabric of his chewing-gum face into themselves. Our son continues to gurgle and scream, maybe this will mark him for life, but it was his first word, and that's pretty cool. So, we dress our son as the clown for the next six years of his life.
(if I've already used this image, sorry!)
Sometimes, the clowns are strange, alien beings, clearly from another planet. A planet where clowns make pants out of giftwrap and shellac. What does the bright line of spots running down his face signify? Is he some sort of day-glo UberHindu?
You have to admit, this clown's pretty hardcore. Not only has he removed his lips entirely so that the only definition to his face comes from the glowing, painted outline of a happy, happy mouth, but he's HIGHLIGHTED HIS EYES. That boy must suffer for his art.
On this strange space-clown's world, everyone waves bright beachballs at each other. It's how they say hello. And two tufts of blue hair? It's the new pixie cut.
But everyone still makes fun of that collar.
-----
Shell art is the great, democratic craft medium. No matter what you make, it's still shell art. Even if you've recreated the battle at Trafalgar using nothing but cowries, someone's going to say, "nice shell art," and shake their head sadly. And as the glue dries on Admiral Nelson's cowrie lapel and it sags more than might be historically accurate, you mutter, "to you, shell art. To me, doctoral project.
And ANYONE can make shell art. The public school system started us slow, gluing macaroni and beans to paper plates, but isn't that just shell-art training? We are America. We glue things to things.
For instance, someone glued shells together to make this wretched "shellbird with cataract." Frankly, I think they cheated, they used silk flowers. The hardcore craftsman would have made daisies out of clam shells. There's really no excuse for poor materials.
Definate "A" for effort on the creature (Bird? Mouse? Bandersnatch?) I've never seen shell-art with little tiny toes sticking out. The brownish resin dripping from its one remaining eye, that's a bit of a turn-off. The empty, staring socket, also a bit frightening. Maybe we should just go back to looking at its toes again.
Perhaps a Goodwill employee took its eye out with a screwdriver, after the customers complained that it kept staring into their souls, pulling out their secrets and chuckling at them in the night. I could see that.
gaze into my shells...
Shellbear! Fear him! He wanders through beach-side campsites with a terrible crunchy grinding sound, and smells of shrimp. He looks cute, but the last little girl that cuddled him walked away--barely--with third-degree lacerations in the most amusing starburst pattern. That's how shellbear defends himself. Do you want a piece of shellbear? How 'bout a bunch of little pieces?
I love the nose. It's kind of "star-nosed mole" in a way. And I can only admire the mad, mad mind, or the cheaply-paid Asian labor, that went into this. Any world that can produce that many precisely glued little shells is a world that's insane enough for me.
Now...it is with sadness and celebration that I say this...I think this community's purpose is done. I cannot go to the stores anymore, after what I've seen. There is nothing funny anymore, because what can possibly be more thriftstoriffic than...dear god...
A SHELL-ART CLOWN? Sweet Jesus on a great big neon cross, someone glued pompoms to clown shells and glued a big fat greasepainted head on a conch. Pipe cleaners! For the love of Martha, they've made arms out of pipecleaners! EEee! The rubbery line of his neck is showing! It's like they savagely rammed a clown head onto a piece of sea life in sick, sick effigy!
This must be from the craft sale at the state school, nothing else makes sense. They wheeled in a great big pile of dead things...dehydrated starfish, whithered seahorses, bits of coral...and a big mound of little wooly puffs, and said, "Make something. I don't know what, clowns. God, they don't pay me enough to deal with you people." And when the orderly got back from his third ciggy...the miracle of shellclown.
Now, if someone would just make a scary-looking Jesus out of tiny little beads and embroidery floss, my life would be utterly complete.
The clown calls to us on a primal level. We ask ourselves, "Are we the clown?" or "I'm glad I'm not the clown." And then, we go forth and MAKE clowns. Sometimes, we make them out of lumps of brightly-colored chewing gum, fused together and tarted up with glitterpaint.
And then we show them to our infant son, who screams "Nono!" and tries to tear the thing apart, but only partially dislodges his pompom. We thought painting hearts on the things cheeks would help, but no, they've become carbuncles, rounded blood-filled lumps drawn tight by lips that seem to draw the fabric of his chewing-gum face into themselves. Our son continues to gurgle and scream, maybe this will mark him for life, but it was his first word, and that's pretty cool. So, we dress our son as the clown for the next six years of his life.
(if I've already used this image, sorry!)
Sometimes, the clowns are strange, alien beings, clearly from another planet. A planet where clowns make pants out of giftwrap and shellac. What does the bright line of spots running down his face signify? Is he some sort of day-glo UberHindu?
You have to admit, this clown's pretty hardcore. Not only has he removed his lips entirely so that the only definition to his face comes from the glowing, painted outline of a happy, happy mouth, but he's HIGHLIGHTED HIS EYES. That boy must suffer for his art.
On this strange space-clown's world, everyone waves bright beachballs at each other. It's how they say hello. And two tufts of blue hair? It's the new pixie cut.
But everyone still makes fun of that collar.
-----
Shell art is the great, democratic craft medium. No matter what you make, it's still shell art. Even if you've recreated the battle at Trafalgar using nothing but cowries, someone's going to say, "nice shell art," and shake their head sadly. And as the glue dries on Admiral Nelson's cowrie lapel and it sags more than might be historically accurate, you mutter, "to you, shell art. To me, doctoral project.
And ANYONE can make shell art. The public school system started us slow, gluing macaroni and beans to paper plates, but isn't that just shell-art training? We are America. We glue things to things.
For instance, someone glued shells together to make this wretched "shellbird with cataract." Frankly, I think they cheated, they used silk flowers. The hardcore craftsman would have made daisies out of clam shells. There's really no excuse for poor materials.
Definate "A" for effort on the creature (Bird? Mouse? Bandersnatch?) I've never seen shell-art with little tiny toes sticking out. The brownish resin dripping from its one remaining eye, that's a bit of a turn-off. The empty, staring socket, also a bit frightening. Maybe we should just go back to looking at its toes again.
Perhaps a Goodwill employee took its eye out with a screwdriver, after the customers complained that it kept staring into their souls, pulling out their secrets and chuckling at them in the night. I could see that.
gaze into my shells...
Shellbear! Fear him! He wanders through beach-side campsites with a terrible crunchy grinding sound, and smells of shrimp. He looks cute, but the last little girl that cuddled him walked away--barely--with third-degree lacerations in the most amusing starburst pattern. That's how shellbear defends himself. Do you want a piece of shellbear? How 'bout a bunch of little pieces?
I love the nose. It's kind of "star-nosed mole" in a way. And I can only admire the mad, mad mind, or the cheaply-paid Asian labor, that went into this. Any world that can produce that many precisely glued little shells is a world that's insane enough for me.
Now...it is with sadness and celebration that I say this...I think this community's purpose is done. I cannot go to the stores anymore, after what I've seen. There is nothing funny anymore, because what can possibly be more thriftstoriffic than...dear god...
A SHELL-ART CLOWN? Sweet Jesus on a great big neon cross, someone glued pompoms to clown shells and glued a big fat greasepainted head on a conch. Pipe cleaners! For the love of Martha, they've made arms out of pipecleaners! EEee! The rubbery line of his neck is showing! It's like they savagely rammed a clown head onto a piece of sea life in sick, sick effigy!
This must be from the craft sale at the state school, nothing else makes sense. They wheeled in a great big pile of dead things...dehydrated starfish, whithered seahorses, bits of coral...and a big mound of little wooly puffs, and said, "Make something. I don't know what, clowns. God, they don't pay me enough to deal with you people." And when the orderly got back from his third ciggy...the miracle of shellclown.
Now, if someone would just make a scary-looking Jesus out of tiny little beads and embroidery floss, my life would be utterly complete.