The Artistic Misadventures—I’m a Sugar Sculptress

Easter is just around the corner, and recalling the hollowed out eggs dotted with frosting roses and quaint scenes inside, Panoramic Sugar Easter Eggs seemed like a fun and creative challenge.  It would involve trying two things for the first time ever.

1. Crafting with food.  

2. Following a recipe.

My expectations for the end results weren’t very high to begin with.  I found a simple recipe online and immediately saw I would need to make some replacements.  For one thing, I wouldn’t be making my own royal frosting, which required a full pound of powered sugar.  Since there would be no way in heck I’d be eating the finished product anyway, I decided to buy some pre-made cake frosting, which I like to think of as “sugar glue.”

Because the recipe called for one egg, I decided to try out a bag of “Neat Egg,” a vegan alternative made from chia seeds and garbanzo bean powder.  Following the instructions, I beat two tablespoons of water and one tablespoon of “Neat Egg” together to create a brownish lump of goo that was supposed to suffice as egg replacement, and plopped it into a mixing bowl with four cups of sugar.  At this point I deviated further from the recipe (“I don’t need food coloring, white is fine!”) and began mixing the fake egg blob into the sugar.

While mixing I began to notice a foul smell.  It was my “Neat Egg.”  I would have thought it had gone rancid except it was a new, sealed pouch with a 2017 expiration date.  It was one of those smells you can’t really ignore, and if you try to, it just gets worse.  Raiding my collection of essential oils I added a few drops of lemon, which masked the foul smell enough to continue.

Something still didn’t seem right …  my mixture was supposed to feel like moist sand, but would hold shape if squeezed into a ball.  It was then I realized I forgot to add ¾  cup of powered sugar.  Luckily, I found some organic powered sugar in the pantry. 

Organic sugar hasn’t been refined until it looks as pristine and sparkly as fresh snow, so the combination of the “Neat Egg” and organic powered sugar had turned my mixture a light grayish-tan.  Food coloring was needed after all …  but the only food coloring I had was organic food dye made from plants which made my Christmas cookies a few months back turn an abysmal grayish pink and blue.

Deciding to try my luck anyway, I let a few globular drops slither out of what I thought was the blue bottle, but as I mixed, my sugar turned a pinkish color.

The mixture was feeling more like damp sand, though I was skeptical because the egg shape collapsed at the slightest touch, I wasn’t so sure how baking the eggs would help them hold their shape. But once removed from the oven they were solid on the outside and scoopy on the inside!

Using a X-acto knife I began to hollow out the inside of the eggs, piercing the ¼ inch or so that is hardened on the outside, and scooped out the remaining wet sand … I mean sugar, leaving a ½ inch thick wall, and made a window for viewing the inside of the egg.  Using frosting as glue I adhered both sides of the egg together.

Now it was time for the fun part.   I had made a few batches of eggs, and during the time the shells were baking (20 minutes at 200°), I had plenty of time to ponder the stories I would tell inside each egg.

Laying a background of frosting in each egg I created a scene of a miniature unicorn and a pegasus flying in a purple, pink and yellow frosting sky, a deer standing in a frosting meadow full of miniature trees, and because I can’t resist the macabre — a graveyard scene with miniature headstones and a skeletal hand rising out of the purple frosting ground. 

At the end of the afternoon I had three Panoramic Sugar Eggs to add a touch of color for Easter this year … all in the name of adventure.

Clair Anna Rose will try anything twice — if it’s a craft. 

This article first appeared in the March 2016 issue of The Noise. 

The Artistic Misadventures — Stage Plight

Sometimes, I admit, I am impulsive.  One day, whilst waiting in line to procure my Hot Chocolate Charger at my favorite coffee house, I decided to glimpse the community calendar to see if there was anything going on. 

Auditions for, You Can’t Take It With You.

Oh no! Thought I, that’s tonight!  

It was a few weeks ago when I received an email from a close friend relaying the information to me, in hopes that perhaps I would re-kindle my love affair with the theatre. 

I got my coffee, and hightailed it back to the community playhouse whereupon walking into the room a kind lady asked me if I was here for the auditions and invited me to come sit in one of the seats in the theater, while they told us a little bit about the play.

Did I mention I had no clue what I was auditioning for? After being handed a piece of paper with a short monologue, I tried to find a place in the lobby to “rehearse.” Finding myself too shy to speak out loud though, I settled for just reading the thing over and over in my head, and mouthing the words as I faced the wall.

Being ushered onto the stage for my reading however, I suddenly remembered that I was horrible at auditions.

So in my best Bette Davis voice (because when I think acting I think Bette Davis) I recited my monologue, pretending that I really was the character whose name I don’t remember, and I was addressing my family, prepping them to meet my new man.

After doing what I thought was a slightly better than mediocre audition and hoping that my charming social awkwardness would carry me through to the next tier, the directors asked me if I would read it again, only this time, “Try to act a little more natural.”

 “Oh, sure!” I say. And begin to read again, but as I read, I realize I’m doing it exactly like I did it the first time and no matter how much I try to act natural, I act less natural and I am hit with the startling realization, Oh my god! I really can’t act. This is why I wasn’t Alice! This is why I wasn’t Medea, Dorothy, or Jo in Little Women. This is why I’m always in the chorus.  Oh my god!

“Thank you, Clair,” the director says, “Can you stay to read with someone else?”

What? You want me to read again? “Oh, of course!” Dang.

By now I am nervous and shaky and trying to figure out, How did I ever use to do this before? How was I so confident and oblivious to my lack of acting skills?

I am partnered up with a fellow and we rehearse in the hall. He’s playing my character’s boyfriend and he’s so good I’m blushing because I feel like he’s hitting on me and he keeps touching my arm and I want to tell him I think he’s nice, but this is all going too fast, and then I remember he’s acting.

We read and I feel embarrassed that someone is listening in on this very private conversation and I’m glad when it’s over.

And then they ask me to read again.

At the end of the night they have us line up from short to tall, and call different combinations of people forward to see how familial we can appear.

We are dismissed for the evening, and told that callbacks are tomorrow, “And if you don’t get called back that doesn’t mean you aren’t in.”

Much to my surprise after such a flawless audition, I don’t make the play.

But it was worth it … all in the name of Adventure. 

The Artistic Misadventures of Ms. Rose: Make Your Own Pinhole Camera

I have a tendency to get one-mindedly obsessed about craft projects until I do them.  That’s how I got to feeling about making my own pinhole camera.  I could make my own camera?  Me? Out of a juice box?  Out of a matchbox? 

Well, this sounds complicated.  Sign me up!

I was so driven by desire to figure out how the heck I could place a roll of film inside a matchbox and get pictures.  Without batteries! I completely abandoned all other things I was supposed to be doing and I went straight home and watched video after video on Youtube about constructing my own pinhole camera.

I then took myself shopping, and I was quite surprised most places don’t actually sell film anymore.

I did find film at Walgreens, and I decided on black and white film which has always been so much more exciting and mysterious than regular film.  I bought three rolls.  I was going to take lots of pictures with my new pinhole camera.

At home I sat down at the kitchen table.  (By now, if you’ve joined me on a misadventure before, you may have noticed my kitchen table is never used for eating meals, but for artistic experiments.)  I spread out in front of me black electrician’s tape, empty rolls of film, new rolls of film, a mini matchbox, an X-acto knife and the directions I needed.  There were a few other supplies called for, but I decided not to use them because it seemed too tedious.  (This is why I usually don’t succeed at recipes — I always decide to leave out things when I don’t think they’re necessary (like onions) or if I don’t want to go to the store.)

I meticulously followed the directions (unless I couldn’t figure out why I should do something the way they suggested, like a tin foil pinhole instead of a cardboard one or Why can’t I push the needle through the cardboard all the way to the eye?  Bigger is better, right? I’ll use an embroidery needle, it’s thicker!)

I colored the inside of the matchbox black.  I taped all the parts together.  I thoroughly impressed myself with my ability to tape together an old piece of film sticking out of an old canister to a new one.  I covered the entire outside of my camera with black tape.

It even looked like a camera.

I decided to go outside to take pictures with my new masterpiece of a pinhole camera.

I took a picture of prayer flags faded by weather hanging in the Chinese elms and waving in the wind, the black cat frolicking in the garden, and my big dog looking at me with his endearingly dopey expression.  I took a photograph of my harmonium.  I tried to do something artistic: take a photo of myself in different places throughout the exposure.  At this time in my photographic career I wasn’t even sure what “exposure” meant, but figured longer was better, right?

When the roll of film was used up, I then set about the task of developing the film.

Things have changed since the last time I developed a roll of film in 2004.  Now everyone sends film away.  I’m so used to digital camera instant-gratification — I wanted to see my pictures now!  Not wait a whole week.

When my pictures were finally ready I excitedly went home to put the disk in my computer to see what sort of ethereal masterpieces I had created.

For some reason most of the pictures looked like I tried to take a photograph of the sun.  Some had slightly identifiable shapes in them.  One vaguely looked like a dog.

After this trial and error pinhole camera experiment, and after hours of puttering around, I have gathered an even simpler method of making your own pinhole camera for my most dedicated artistic misadventure-ers.

How to make a pinhole camera adaptor for your DSLR: 1. Remove the lens from your camera.  2. Tape a piece of tin foil over your camera where the lens goes.  3. Poke a teeny, tiny hole in the tin foil.  4. Take a bunch of digital pictures with your homemade pinhole adaptor until you figure out what the heck aperture, ISO, and shutter speed are, and how they work with a pinhole adaptor.

Of course, I do encourage you to make a pinhole camera using film (just follow your chosen directions!).  I too will be giving pinhole cameras another dabble …  all in the name of adventure!

An early version of this post appears on this blog, and this article appeared first in The Noise. 

The Artistic Misadventures: Mishap With Modge Podge

On a beautiful spring afternoon I came home from my poetry class feeling inspired.  I was in the middle of making an Alice in Wonderland collage and had been slowly and carefully cutting out old illustrations from various Alice in Wonderland/Through The Looking Glass scenes, and thoughtfully organizing them in a colorful, busy paper world.  I finally figured out how I would like my scene arranged, complete with different layers popped into the foreground to create depth, but I hadn't figured out what to do for a background until I was driving home in my 1973 VW microbus "Bubbles."  I was struck with inspiration — The background should be playing cards, of course!

I raced home at breakneck speed (20MPH) and set up at the kitchen table with a pot of Modge Podge, a deck of cards, and all my little paper cut-outs of Alice in Wonderland characters.

In my creative whirlwind I hadn't bothered to change out of my day clothes (a flowing skirt and billowing blouse, of course!), but that didn't matter, because I almost never (almost always) make messes.  Why, if I can go a whole day without getting glue or paint in my hair or on my clothes I consider this a success.

At a leisurely pace I coated the background where I would soon be plastering cards down.  I was taking my time, because I so enjoy the sensation of creativity — I wanted to drag it out for as long as possible.

Alas, my spatial awareness must have been a bit off that day.  Many key indicators of the catastrophe soon to come were before my very eyes, but I was blithely ignoring them: the open jar of Modge Podge placed precariously at the edge of the table, the smooth unblemished fabric of my skirt just tempting fate to spill something on it, and the wild movement of my elbows as I brushed glue on my canvas.

When my elbow connected with the jar of Modge Podge time suddenly slowed down.

“Oooooh Nooooo!” I exclaimed, but just like in the movies my words were slowed down and garbled.  It was as if the jar had a face, and kept fear-filled eye contact with me as it slowly descended to the ground flailing its little imaginary arms.  Upon impact the jar seemed to flinch as Modge Podge exploded into the air and for a moment hovered weightless before time clicked into real speed and the Modge Podge landed all over my clothes, my hair and the kitchen floor.

My plans for a leisurely afternoon of gluing stuff to stuff were interrupted by a new consideration — the race against time to use the Modge Podge before it dried on the floor, in my hair and on my clothes.

I knew what I had to do and I didn’t like it.  The Modge Podge on the floor needed to be on my canvas, and there was only one way to get it there.

I grabbed up the cards.

I knelt on the floor.

One by one I slathered each card by rubbing them around in the pile of Modge Podge, coating as many of them as quickly as possible and then quickly slapping them down onto the collage.

Forget about brushes!  I didn't have time for that! 

I lamented the stray strands of dog hair and specks of dirt working their way into the collage.  My hands were dirty now anyway, having rubbed them all over the floor to try to scoop as much Modge Podge as possible off the floor and back into the jar.

When I had utilized as much of the floor spill as possible I began to use cards to scrape the Modge Podge off my clothes and rang out my hair onto the collage.

What was going to be so carefully calculated and done with precision had been accomplished in under five minutes.

With the background settled and drying, I stood still for a moment catching my breath and taking in the mess around me — and the mess that was me.  I had to decide what clean-up took priority — I decided on my clothes.  I ran to the laundry room and threw my Modge Podge soaked clothes in the washer and crossed my fingers, then scurried back to the kitchen to see to the now-glossy tiles.  Finally I recruited a bottle of dish soap to work on washing the dry Modge Podge from my hair.

The end result, regardless of the road to completion, was exactly how I envisioned it.

This article first appeared in The Noise.