I’m a gatherer, a collector of found objects. My studio is a museum of delightful doodads, curated throughout my travels and from visits to my favorite local antique malls and thrift shops. When I’m not in my studio creating or on a journey to a faraway place, you can find me browsing the shelves and bins and cubbies of these emporiums, looking for something that piques my curiosity.
My studio space is full of these treasures. They inspire me. I love thinking about where they might have been before I found them and brought them home. There are little vignettes throughout my studio; small collections of items gathered over the years. The ceramic bird-shaped whistle I bought in New York City on a Thanksgiving trip with my family. The tiny drawers filled with silk threads and buttons that belonged to my grand- mother. Rocks picked up in the Tuileries Garden in Paris. Shells from vacations at too many seashores to count. But all of it takes me back to those places and times.
Just as my studio holds mementos of trips taken, so do my travel journals, which are all made from repurposed vintage items — old books, antique ledgers, previously sent postcards from unknown travelers, tiny treasures that adhere to the cover or attach to the journal’s binding. I curate the materials that will become a travel journal for Paris, a Panama Canal cruise, or a road trip to the beach. I select a simple palette of a few colors, then gather papers and other items to play off of that palette.
Incorporating quotes into my travel journals is one of my favorite ways to add interest. Whenever I come across a quote I add it to a small notebook, as if it’s an addition to another collection in my studio. Then, as I begin to gather materials and prepare pages to put into a new travel journal, I’ll roll a bit of vintage onionskin paper into my old Wedgwood blue Royal typewriter and type out a previously saved quote. The clackity-clack of the keys and the feel of the thin, textured paper remind me of sitting at the library table in my sorority house and typing up term papers in college (and now I’ve dated myself — haha).
There is a small collection of tiny vintage tins that I fill with half-pans of watercolors. Each tin contains a palette for whichever location I happen to be visiting. They’re small enough to throw into my bag for a day of exploring, people watching and shopping at flea markets; and when it’s time for a little sit-down in a pub or cafe, I’ll pull out my travel journal and tin of watercolors to do a quick sketch or make simple marks, adding more layers to the pages and memories to my book.
Working in my studio, my eyes land on a jar full of tiny vials of vintage paint pigments, creating a lovely bundle of faded hues. I pull out three or four that look good together and use those as my palette, mixing paints and selecting pastels that are similar in color. I rummage through my vintage wallpaper collection and pick out rolls in the same array of colors, and then rifle through the drawer full of buttons to find just the right ones.
With all of these bits laid out on my worktable, I am ready to get busy. Sometimes, I’m finishing a vintage travel journal from a recent trip; other times I’m creating a journal for an upcoming vacation. There are also times when I’m simply cutting and pasting, adding bits of watercolor or pastel, writing out favorite quotes, with no outcome in mind. Just playing and seeing what comes together is like meditation for me.
I have amassed a lovely collection of vintage linen postcards that depict different locations around the world. I use these in my vintage travel journals to add a layer of interest. As I select postcards for the travel journal to chronicle my upcoming trip to France, I linger over the messages written long ago on the backsides. Notations of places visited, messages of “wishing you were here” and reports of “we’re enjoying fine weather.”
Making my choices, I tuck a couple of postcards between the pages of my travel journal to inspire me while I’m working on it at a cafe near the Musée d’Orsay in Paris, or later at my Montmartre apartment kitchen table, my makeshift studio.
Back in my studio, under my desk is a basket full of vintage book covers. When I create a travel journal, I carefully consider the cover. I prefer a smallish book for a travel journal so that I can throw it into my bag for art-on-the-go: a sketch while sitting on a park bench, jotting down a snippet of conversation overheard in a cafe. All of the book covers have been collected from estate sales, antique malls, vintage bookshops. I carefully deconstruct each book, stacking the covers in this basket and placing the pages in a large storage bin. The crinkly and sepia-toned papers make lovely backgrounds for the pages within my journals, and I love the slightly musty smell as I flip through them.
Another basket holds bits of vintage lace and lengths of old ribbon, some I’ve amassed myself and other pieces that came from my grandmother’s collection. I love the tactile quality of the items in this basket. I love thinking about what this bit of lace may have come from: the collar of a dress worn as her Sunday best … perhaps a but of trim on the kitchen tablecloth. Invariably, I make up stories about the bits and bobs throughout my studio. I think about the hands of the woman who might have purchased this ribbon so many years ago. Who was she? What was she like?
Over there sits an old skeleton key on my desk, purchased in Paris at one of my favorite shops on the Rue des Martyrs. Eventually, it may find its way to one of my journal covers, perhaps for my next trip to Paris. But now it rests in a spot where my eyes land on it as I sit here typing, and I’m distracted for a moment, remembering that rainy morning near the Montmartre apartment I rented one April when I made a new friend of the lovely Parisian shopkeeper. She was very gracious as I stumbled through our conversation. My French, although not precise, allowed us to communicate as she knew no English. Her shop toasty warm on that drab day, just the two of us moving about in the small space. She spoke of where she found this item, and that one. I could have stayed there all morning, listening to her stories, listening to her speak French.
Against a wall on the other side of my studio, on top of an old steamer chest, is a stack of time-worn suitcases. Each case holds vintage fabrics, old needlepoint pieces, or unbleached linen. I’m drawn to old suitcases, imagining them being stowed in the luggage car on a train that left the station long, long ago and headed to parts unknown, its owner anticipating her grand adventure.
I think what I love best about the treasures I’ve curated in my studio is that just about everything in here, from the objects themselves to the vessels I’ve found to store them in, has had a previous life.
All these found objects in my studio inspire me. They evoke memories, inspire stories, and provide layers to my vintage travel journals for journeys yet to be taken and stories yet to unfold.
I’m a gatherer, a collector of found objects. My studio is a museum of delightful doodads, curated throughout my travels and from visits to my favorite local antique malls and thrift shops. When I’m not in my studio creating or on a journey to a faraway place, you can find me browsing the shelves and bins and cubbies of these emporiums, looking for something that piques my curiosity.
My studio space is full of these treasures. They inspire me. I love thinking about where they might have been before I found them and brought them home. There are little vignettes throughout my studio; small collections of items gathered over the years. The ceramic bird-shaped whistle I bought in New York City on a Thanksgiving trip with my family. The tiny drawers filled with silk threads and buttons that belonged to my grand- mother. Rocks picked up in the Tuileries Garden in Paris. Shells from vacations at too many seashores to count. But all of it takes me back to those places and times.
Just as my studio holds mementos of trips taken, so do my travel journals, which are all made from repurposed vintage items — old books, antique ledgers, previously sent postcards from unknown travelers, tiny treasures that adhere to the cover or attach to the journal’s binding. I curate the materials that will become a travel journal for Paris, a Panama Canal cruise, or a road trip to the beach. I select a simple palette of a few colors, then gather papers and other items to play off of that palette.
Incorporating quotes into my travel journals is one of my favorite ways to add interest. Whenever I come across a quote I add it to a small notebook, as if it’s an addition to another collection in my studio. Then, as I begin to gather materials and prepare pages to put into a new travel journal, I’ll roll a bit of vintage onionskin paper into my old Wedgwood blue Royal typewriter and type out a previously saved quote. The clackity-clack of the keys and the feel of the thin, textured paper remind me of sitting at the library table in my sorority house and typing up term papers in college (and now I’ve dated myself — haha).
There is a small collection of tiny vintage tins that I fill with half-pans of watercolors. Each tin contains a palette for whichever location I happen to be visiting. They’re small enough to throw into my bag for a day of exploring, people watching and shopping at flea markets; and when it’s time for a little sit-down in a pub or cafe, I’ll pull out my travel journal and tin of watercolors to do a quick sketch or make simple marks, adding more layers to the pages and memories to my book.
Working in my studio, my eyes land on a jar full of tiny vials of vintage paint pigments, creating a lovely bundle of faded hues. I pull out three or four that look good together and use those as my palette, mixing paints and selecting pastels that are similar in color. I rummage through my vintage wallpaper collection and pick out rolls in the same array of colors, and then rifle through the drawer full of buttons to find just the right ones.
With all of these bits laid out on my worktable, I am ready to get busy. Sometimes, I’m finishing a vintage travel journal from a recent trip; other times I’m creating a journal for an upcoming vacation. There are also times when I’m simply cutting and pasting, adding bits of watercolor or pastel, writing out favorite quotes, with no outcome in mind. Just playing and seeing what comes together is like meditation for me.
I have amassed a lovely collection of vintage linen postcards that depict different locations around the world. I use these in my vintage travel journals to add a layer of interest. As I select postcards for the travel journal to chronicle my upcoming trip to France, I linger over the messages written long ago on the backsides. Notations of places visited, messages of “wishing you were here” and reports of “we’re enjoying fine weather.”
Making my choices, I tuck a couple of postcards between the pages of my travel journal to inspire me while I’m working on it at a cafe near the Musée d’Orsay in Paris, or later at my Montmartre apartment kitchen table, my makeshift studio.
Back in my studio, under my desk is a basket full of vintage book covers. When I create a travel journal, I carefully consider the cover. I prefer a smallish book for a travel journal so that I can throw it into my bag for art-on-the-go: a sketch while sitting on a park bench, jotting down a snippet of conversation overheard in a cafe. All of the book covers have been collected from estate sales, antique malls, vintage bookshops. I carefully deconstruct each book, stacking the covers in this basket and placing the pages in a large storage bin. The crinkly and sepia-toned papers make lovely backgrounds for the pages within my journals, and I love the slightly musty smell as I flip through them.
Another basket holds bits of vintage lace and lengths of old ribbon, some I’ve amassed myself and other pieces that came from my grandmother’s collection. I love the tactile quality of the items in this basket. I love thinking about what this bit of lace may have come from: the collar of a dress worn as her Sunday best … perhaps a but of trim on the kitchen tablecloth. Invariably, I make up stories about the bits and bobs throughout my studio. I think about the hands of the woman who might have purchased this ribbon so many years ago. Who was she? What was she like?
Over there sits an old skeleton key on my desk, purchased in Paris at one of my favorite shops on the Rue des Martyrs. Eventually, it may find its way to one of my journal covers, perhaps for my next trip to Paris. But now it rests in a spot where my eyes land on it as I sit here typing, and I’m distracted for a moment, remembering that rainy morning near the Montmartre apartment I rented one April when I made a new friend of the lovely Parisian shopkeeper. She was very gracious as I stumbled through our conversation. My French, although not precise, allowed us to communicate as she knew no English. Her shop toasty warm on that drab day, just the two of us moving about in the small space. She spoke of where she found this item, and that one. I could have stayed there all morning, listening to her stories, listening to her speak French.
Against a wall on the other side of my studio, on top of an old steamer chest, is a stack of time-worn suitcases. Each case holds vintage fabrics, old needlepoint pieces, or unbleached linen. I’m drawn to old suitcases, imagining them being stowed in the luggage car on a train that left the station long, long ago and headed to parts unknown, its owner anticipating her grand adventure.
I think what I love best about the treasures I’ve curated in my studio is that just about everything in here, from the objects themselves to the vessels I’ve found to store them in, has had a previous life.
All these found objects in my studio inspire me. They evoke memories, inspire stories, and provide layers to my vintage travel journals for journeys yet to be taken and stories yet to unfold.
