Midsummer Cicadas Portraits

The cicadas chirp every afternoon now. Their sound scratches like brambles and burns like sunlight.
I never thought I would share this with Leslie.

But here we are. This looks like a ball-jointed doll. It looks like the country.

And it looks like me.
I had to put us both in vintage jewelry. I'm obsessed.

Comments

yuis said…

Oh, Miss Amanda! You are both so BEAUTIFUL!!!! I love seeing you both so serene together....

July 5, 2010 at 11:44 PM

Amanda said…

Thank you so much! It meant so much to me to do the portraits.

July 8, 2010 at 4:33 PM

yuis said…

They truly came out so lovely!

July 8, 2010 at 6:41 PM

Fanchon

I can't believe it. It looks like the rusted gates to The Garden of Virtues are going to be laboriously parted by small articulated resin hands after all once more. I am glad that I am buying Lanie's Angel, but I am also a little sad. I remember disposing of Dresden along with my other dolls. I was in a vicious rage. I hesitated over Dresden's prone form, thinking, goodness, even I don't think of her as a BJD, is this really necessary? And then, blindly, cutting the strings. I can't believe I am actually talking about this now. I have not talked about it before. I regretted losing her afterward, because I did not really need to part with her. She was a sweet, special presence, a little woman. I have kept all of her eyes, wigs and clothes. Of course I will never forget the moments in which I divested all of my BJD's of their clothing, wigs and eyes. The other day Henry came around with a little velcro he had found and I grew faint, knowing that it had come fro...

It was 1846.

"The wind was hard and fast, howling against the immovable keep. Within lights glowed. Like beacons the panes of illuminated glass dazzled my eyes, so cold I thought surely they had frozen open. I knew not myself. I knew not my hands, which hung as exanimate wraiths from my arms. My clothes, dull rags, twisted around me, and it seemed they made no difference against the ice and the wind. I felt myself drawn into the warmth of the keep. I was past gratitude-nay, not past-but I knew that I had been reduced to a bestial state. I was too ashamed of myself and my imposition to look my benefactor in the face." It was thus that we found "Caroline." I saw her in the St. Vincent de Paul resale shop and was captivated by her forlorn looks. I gathered her limp body in my arms, and Leslie and I brought her home. In the sewing room I removed her wig, dismantled her limbs, and after eyeing her stuffing decided to discard it along with the wig. I took her body pieces ap...

A Garden of Virtues

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