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Lupa
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Leftover Spirits Today is an artwork day. I’ve been looking forward to it, and now I’m taking advantage of it. I don’t have as much time for creating things as I used to, so when I do have some time for these things, I savor it. I’ve been
unemployed for a few weeks, and my husband, Taylor, has been kind enough to
give me a month off before I even have to start job hunting. The past year has been hell on me. We moved from It’s my turn, now, to look for a real job, something that pays more than $10 an hour. But first, I’ve gotten a break to let my body and psyche recover from a lot of stress and damage. I’ve finished editing a couple of manuscripts for Taylor, who is the managing editor for the pagan/occult publisher we both write for, and I’ve just sent off the second-to-last draft of my own current book project. There’s nothing else pressing, so it’s time for me to create things. I don’t paint on canvas, at least not very well, and my drawing ability is negligible at best. However, give me leather, fur, beads, bone and other such things, and I can make anything from ritual tools to jewelry to wall hangings and then some. Old fur coats, taxidermy mounts, disassembled costume jewelry—these and more are the materials I use. Wait a minute—did I say materials? That’s not the right word. There’s much more respect to what I do. I’m well aware of the conditions in factory farms and fur farms. I know how trappers and hunters aren’t always ethical. I have deer skulls I found with their antlers sawn off, the meat and fur left to rot in the woods. I have fur coats abandoned to Goodwill bins, deer heads that have been removed from wooden plaques and cardboard taxidermy moldings, bone beads released from broken necklaces. There are faces and tails and feet that were thrown away by the coat factories because all they wanted were the pelts of foxes, coyotes and raccoons. The souls have departed, and yet there is spirit left to these remains. Laden with chemicals, I can’t bury them in the Earth or burn them. But I can’t leave them as trophies either. So I talk to the spirits left in the furs and bones. I ask them what they want to become, what piece of beauty they’d like to be a part of. I can’t give them their lives back, but I can give them new existences. I open one of the ten big blue plastic watertight bins in the laundry room where I keep most of what I work with. As I sift through layers of old coats and stoles, a sleeve of white fox calls out to me. She’s soft, with a little sprinkle of grey and black hairs amid the white; she enjoys the attention of being petted and looked at as something other than a status symbol bought with blood money. I don’t hear words, but the image of a drawstring pouch flashes into my mind. Aha, a simple one, but lovely nonetheless. I draw out the fur with a caress, and take her back to my work area. I sit down amid partially finished and completed projects. Here is the horse totem I made from an old dog bone and some horse hair. There’s the painted doe skull that I just need to add a string to hang her from. Perched on the tall candle holder is the headdress I made from an old mule deer taxidermy mount, antlers and all. And outside on the porch there’s a cloak made from wolf fur and painted deer skin—I used acrylics on the leather, and I’m in the process of spraying it with layers of sealant to protect my work. I examine the fox fur. She’s from an older coat, and some of the strips of fur are dry and brittle. This means I’ll have to glue a fabric backing so she’ll hold. I ask the fox, nicely, if I may do so, and she agrees, content just to be in my hands. Once the backing is attached, I lay the fox to the side, and head back to the bins. This time the bin of deer antlers calls to me. I open the lid, and right on top, as if he’d fought the other antlers for the best spot, is an old, weather, heavy whitetail antler. You don’t see whitetails this size any more—the main beam must be more than four inches in circumference. The ends of the tines are broken off, and the surface of grey antler looks like old wood. I lift up the old trooper, feeling the heft and weight of the bone. I’ve made a number of things with such antlers, and I’m curious as to what he wants to be. He sends me an image of a bowl, and I know immediately what he’s talking about. I have handcarved wooden bowls which I mount on deer antler as ritual offering dishes. So it’s back to the supply room to pull out a bowl. Normally I cradle the bowl in the curve of the antler. However, this deer was so big that the bowl slides out easily. He tells me, “Turn me over”, not with words, but a sensation of picking up the rough bone and balancing it on its broken tips. I do so, and the bowl settles nicely at the apex of the curve. Already the antler is feeling better, and he allows me to drill small peg holes to help secure the bowl to his back. The adhesive holding the pegs in will need time to dry, so I set the antler and his bowl aside for the moment and walk outside to check on my cloak. This is one of the few pieces where I’ve used a brand new pelt. At one of the pagan gatherings I attend yearly there is a reputable dealer in pelts and other animal parts. One year, as I was walking through his tent, asking the animals who was going to go home with me, a lovely black and silver timber wolf pelt begged for a moment of my time. Several years later, he is now stitched to two halves of a black deerskin, made into a ritual cloak. Were I to turn him over, I would be the CITES information, the numbers that tell me that he was taken legally, written in permanent marker above his tail. But it’s the other side I’m concerned with right now. The black
deerskin is quite happy to be my canvas today.
I’ve only painted one half of the cloak today; the rest will happen
tomorrow. I’m reminded, for a moment, of
some of the buffalo robes made by the Lakhota and other plains tribes of As I spray one more layer of sealant on the intricate design, I think of how these different symbols have affected my life and my worldview. But I also think of the wolf and the deer who once ran through the wilderness, probably far away from each other, and who are now brought together in this creation of mine. I think of how our paths have collided to create a symbol of pathworking in general, a tool meant to help whatever magician or pagan it goes to climb up and down the World Tree in search of answers. All of the animal parts I work with come from a variety of sources. Some are from flea markets or online sources; others I found in the woods. And a few have been mailed to me by people who wanted to see them get a better home. Most have had bad deaths, which is why part of the purification process is to meditate with the spirits and relive their dying moments. Most people are repulsed by dead things, especially the faces and tails. Yet they’ll wear leather shoes, or eat hamburger, or eat produce laced with pesticides that killed numerous insects—and possibly larger animals as well. I’ve always liked working with skulls and bones, fur and feather, ever since I scavenged rabbit skulls and turkey feathers from the woods I grew up near. It’s natural to me, and I am honored by their trust. They trust me to help them find a better afterlife than hanging on a wall or in a closet of mothballs. They know that my clientele are pagans and magicians, people who will honor them in ritual and magic. But I also know that it doesn’t have to be this way. Perhaps some day I won’t have to rehabilitate these remains, because they’ll no longer be pulled from the Earth unnaturally and treated with chemicals. I give a portion of the money I make from my artwork to the Defenders of Wildlife, a nonprofit group that works to protect wildlife and their habitat. I write letters to my representatives, and I pass on news bits to others who may do the same. But as long
as there are remains left mistreated, they will come to me and others who work
the same magic, to be turned from symbols of human domination to participants in
magic and creative processes.Today is an artwork day.
I’ve been looking forward to it, and now I’m taking advantage of
it. I don’t have as much time for
creating things as I used to, so when I do have some time for these things, I
savor it. I’ve been
unemployed for a few weeks, and my husband, Taylor, has been kind enough to
give me a month off before I even have to start job hunting. The past year has been hell on me. We moved from It’s my
turn, now, to look for a real job, something that pays more than $10 an
hour. But first, I’ve gotten a break to
let my body and psyche recover from a lot of stress and damage. I’ve finished editing a couple of manuscripts
for Taylor, who is the managing editor for the pagan/occult publisher we both
write for, and I’ve just sent off the second-to-last draft of my own current
book project. There’s nothing else
pressing, so it’s time for me to create things. I don’t
paint on canvas, at least not very well, and my drawing ability is negligible
at best. However, give me leather, fur,
beads, bone and other such things, and I can make anything from ritual tools to
jewelry to wall hangings and then some.
Old fur coats, taxidermy mounts, disassembled costume jewelry—these and
more are the materials I use. Wait a
minute—did I say materials? That’s not
the right word. There’s much more
respect to what I do. I’m well aware of
the conditions in factory farms and fur farms.
I know how trappers and hunters aren’t always ethical. I have deer skulls I found with their antlers
sawn off, the meat and fur left to rot in the woods. I have fur coats abandoned to Goodwill bins,
deer heads that have been removed from wooden plaques and cardboard taxidermy
moldings, bone beads released from broken necklaces. There are faces and tails and feet that were
thrown away by the coat factories because all they wanted were the pelts of
foxes, coyotes and raccoons. The souls
have departed, and yet there is spirit left to these remains. Laden with chemicals, I can’t bury them in
the Earth or burn them. But I can’t
leave them as trophies either. So I talk
to the spirits left in the furs and bones.
I ask them what they want to become, what piece of beauty they’d like to
be a part of. I can’t give them their
lives back, but I can give them new existences. I open one
of the ten big blue plastic watertight bins in the laundry room where I keep
most of what I work with. As I sift through
layers of old coats and stoles, a sleeve of white fox calls out to me. She’s soft, with a little sprinkle of grey
and black hairs amid the white; she enjoys the attention of being petted and
looked at as something other than a status symbol bought with blood money. I don’t hear words, but the image of a
drawstring pouch flashes into my mind.
Aha, a simple one, but lovely nonetheless. I draw out the fur with a caress, and take
her back to my work area. I sit down
amid partially finished and completed projects.
Here is the horse totem I made from an old dog bone and some horse
hair. There’s the painted doe skull that
I just need to add a string to hang her from.
Perched on the tall candle holder is the headdress I made from an old
mule deer taxidermy mount, antlers and all.
And outside on the porch there’s a cloak made from wolf fur and painted
deer skin—I used acrylics on the leather, and I’m in the process of spraying it
with layers of sealant to protect my work. I examine
the fox fur. She’s from an older coat,
and some of the strips of fur are dry and brittle. This means I’ll have to glue a fabric backing
so she’ll hold. I ask the fox, nicely,
if I may do so, and she agrees, content just to be in my hands. Once the backing is attached, I lay the fox
to the side, and head back to the bins. This time
the bin of deer antlers calls to me. I
open the lid, and right on top, as if he’d fought the other antlers for the
best spot, is an old, weather, heavy whitetail antler. You don’t see whitetails this size any
more—the main beam must be more than four inches in circumference. The ends of the tines are broken off, and the
surface of grey antler looks like old wood.
I lift up
the old trooper, feeling the heft and weight of the bone. I’ve made a number of things with such
antlers, and I’m curious as to what he wants to be. He sends me an image of a bowl, and I know
immediately what he’s talking about. I
have handcarved wooden bowls which I mount on deer antler as ritual offering
dishes. So it’s back to the supply room
to pull out a bowl. Normally I
cradle the bowl in the curve of the antler.
However, this deer was so big that the bowl slides out easily. He tells me, “Turn me over”, not with words,
but a sensation of picking up the rough bone and balancing it on its broken
tips. I do so, and the bowl settles
nicely at the apex of the curve. Already
the antler is feeling better, and he allows me to drill small peg holes to help
secure the bowl to his back. The
adhesive holding the pegs in will need time to dry, so I set the antler and his
bowl aside for the moment and walk outside to check on my cloak. This is one
of the few pieces where I’ve used a brand new pelt. At one of the pagan gatherings I attend
yearly there is a reputable dealer in pelts and other animal parts. One year,
as I was walking through his tent, asking the animals who was going to go home
with me, a lovely black and silver timber wolf pelt begged for a moment of my
time. Several years later, he is now
stitched to two halves of a black deerskin, made into a ritual cloak. Were I to turn him over, I would be the CITES
information, the numbers that tell me that he was taken legally, written in
permanent marker above his tail. But
it’s the other side I’m concerned with right now. The black
deerskin is quite happy to be my canvas today.
I’ve only painted one half of the cloak today; the rest will happen
tomorrow. I’m reminded, for a moment, of
some of the buffalo robes made by the Lakhota and other plains tribes of As I spray
one more layer of sealant on the intricate design, I think of how these
different symbols have affected my life and my worldview. But I also think of the wolf and the deer who
once ran through the wilderness, probably far away from each other, and who are
now brought together in this creation of mine.
I think of how our paths have collided to create a symbol of pathworking
in general, a tool meant to help whatever magician or pagan it goes to climb up
and down the World Tree in search of answers. All of the
animal parts I work with come from a variety of sources. Some are from flea markets or online sources;
others I found in the woods. And a few
have been mailed to me by people who wanted to see them get a better home. Most have had bad deaths, which is why part
of the purification process is to meditate with the spirits and relive their
dying moments. Most people
are repulsed by dead things, especially the faces and tails. Yet they’ll wear leather shoes, or eat
hamburger, or eat produce laced with pesticides that killed numerous
insects—and possibly larger animals as well.
I’ve always liked working with skulls and bones, fur and feather, ever
since I scavenged rabbit skulls and turkey feathers from the woods I grew up
near. It’s natural to me, and I am
honored by their trust. They trust me to
help them find a better afterlife than hanging on a wall or in a closet of
mothballs. They know that my clientele
are pagans and magicians, people who will honor them in ritual and magic. But I also
know that it doesn’t have to be this way.
Perhaps some day I won’t have to rehabilitate these remains, because
they’ll no longer be pulled from the Earth unnaturally and treated with
chemicals. I give a portion of the money
I make from my artwork to the Defenders of Wildlife, a nonprofit group that
works to protect wildlife and their habitat.
I write letters to my representatives, and I pass on news bits to others
who may do the same. But as long as there are remains left mistreated, they will come to me and others who work the same magic, to be turned from symbols of human domination to participants in magic and creative processes. |