We offer up little pieces of our hearts for people to consume.
(Firstly a little shout out to the OG un-gentrified co-working spaces of our cities. I’ve just got my first public library card and the joy I felt sat in there all day with the normal people of our communities was unparalleled. I carried my pile of (free?!*$£!) books home with a childlike skip in my step. I caught people smiling at me as I walked past... was it the surprise of someone walking past without their head buried in their phone? As I popped my pile of books on the counter of Istanbul Market (the best shop in Tooting) and swung the bags of tomatoes and parsley on top of the scales, the woman behind the till started laughing. I giggled, and sheepishly - but gleefully- revealed I had just got a new library card and might have gotten a bit over-excited… She told me she did the exact same thing a few months ago and the magic still hadn’t worn off. )
I was commissioned by my (extremely talented and amazing) friend Liv Little to write a piece about my creative process. Check out her substack ‘The Feels’
and her book Rosewater.This spilled out of me one day at the library…
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I’ve always been a person who surrounds themselves with trinkets; knick-knacks - tiny boxes - spoons too small, spoons too big, functionless yet oh-so important objects. These objects have followed me around my entire life. I have no idea where a lot of them come from - they’ve always just been there in my periphery checking in on me. Making sure I'm ok. They sat on the dusty shelf in the yellow and green bedroom my brother and I built our forts in as children. They were chucked in a drawer at my uni halls, waiting patiently to be promoted to a top shelf for all to see. They followed me from house-shares with friends to playing grown ups in flats with exes. The flat on the seafront on top of the fish and chip shop. The house with the plastic spiral staircase leading up to my little attic room. On every dusty mantelpiece of my twenties, I’ve placed my trinkets.
My most prized trinket, as in the thing I would grab if my house was burning down, is a tiny - actually functioning object. It’s a zip jacket that my grandma made for an Action Man belonging to my dad in the 70s. Measuring 5 centimetres tall with an arm span of about 11 centimetres. Looking at its blue bobbled fleece fabric and perfectly proportioned chunky zip, I can almost imagine my dad as a borrower sized boy wearing it. These tiny useless objects that adorn my flat are the life force that make my house a home. Beyond my laptop screen now is a selection of trinkets sat on a wooden plate. There is a candle in the middle. And what connects each small, functionless, essential object on my makeshift shrine is a sprinkling of shells. Like Hansel and Gretel’s crumbs, these shells lead me back home: to memories of love and loss.
Shells. My new obsession. My new symbol-du-jour. I take symbols quite literally. A year ago my symbol was a butterfly. When my ex and I broke up we went to get tattoos. I got a little winged friend behind my ear to cement some sense into the nonsensical thing I had just done (break ups, eh). The butterfly - the symbol of transformation. The chrysalis stage - when a caterpillar breaks down into a magical metamorphosing goo - is death, but the caterpillar re-emerges even more beautiful than before. Would this be the same for our relationship? During this time of heartbreak I saw butterflies everywhere I went. I stitched them into all my clothes. I still sleep with the butterfly shaped soft toy Con made me.
The desire to make sense of my life through symbols means the shell has emerged as the next motif in my autobiographical sense making mission. Right now, I am a pebble on the beach admiring every shell, its aesthetic and the personality that shines through it. I’ve recently released a necklace in my new collection named ‘_I slept and dreamed that life was beauty_’. These necklaces are made of shells that I collected on a beach in Mexico last year. I selected these little pieces of pink gold when my heart was broken into a million pieces. The break up had crept out of a depression and I didn’t see it coming. In Mexico, I wrapped the sweet ancient charms into a cloth and brought them back to England to show Con. I wanted to show her the little pieces of my heart that I’d found washed up under my toes, while we both grieved a relationship on different sides of the earth.
I’ve drilled tiny holes into the heartbreak shells so they can be worn as amulets. This requires a very delicate touch. I’ve acquired a tiny hand held drill and it is recommended that you fill the shell with water while you drill it - like you’re soothing the shell and reminding it of home while you pierce its hard skin. Paired with a silky or chunky silver chain, the seashell goes from being ‘kitch-seaside-windchime-core’ to something witchy and ritualistic. I want to be a witch, I want to emanate Anne Boleyn, I want to be protected by nature’s gift. The shell conjures peace and tranquillity as it adorns my ageing neck.
My brand is my art work. I’ve only recently allowed myself to identify as an artist. Previously I was just a ‘small business owner’, but I cannot fight it anymore. It’s become increasingly hard to control my desire to tell stories with the objects I come across. I want to weave them into the things I make. It’s still hard to fight the imposter syndrome as someone who didn’t do a creative undergrad and is a self taught sewer. I even actively disliked my art foundation when I was 18.
Seashells emerge in all forms of art - see Botticelli and Leonardo da Vinci. They are associated with love, fertility and sensuality with its vulva-like energy. In Hinduism Lakshmi is ‘born of the churning ocean’. In Mediaeval Christian traditions they are associated with pilgrims. In most global religions shells will symbolise the safe passage of our souls from this world to another. They are remnants of a past life, once a home to a crab and now left to sit on the beach- a reminder of life that once was. They are protection. They are letting go of imperfections. They are immortal beauty in their imperfections. They are gentle and alluring. You can’t help coming home from the beach with a pocket full of shells.
Art is about nurturing connection and joy and finding a way to communicate your experience of the world. I hope this gives an insight into how I formulate my ideas. Nine years ago I taught myself how to sew through watching hours of YouTube as a way to channel the grief of my father’s suicide. One year ago I started writing as a way to deal with the worst of heart breaks. Both avenues of creativity have made me feel alive when things have felt close to - _too_ hard. We have to express ourselves with the tools that we have. We offer up little pieces of our hearts for people to consume. To appreciate. To find solace, or connection, or beauty in. Creativity to me is to fall in love with the everyday.
Things to do with shells:
Blow a conch shell to summon positive energy
Build a pagan altar - the shell is water, which lies on the West side of the altar. Earth sits at the north, air to the east, and fire to the south. Witches invoke all the elements before any ritual to protect the sacred space.
You can use the scallop shell to manifest. They also look very good as butter or soap dishes.
Shells make journeys, as we do, and incur knocks and scratches and loose chunks and change along the way. They remind us of the beauty in the simple things
wear them during a journey
to protect you from evil
During moon rituals - use the shell to release what isn't serving you
If you dream of seashells; good luck and growth is coming your way
.. it can also represent your desire for protection
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And now I’m here to tell you about the rest of the small collection that I attempted to get out in time for Valentines day but failed miserably due to wintery slowness. The pillow cases are very special to me. After spending many evenings scouring eBay sourcing Marie-Antoinette/Virgin Suicides/general Sofia Coppola-core vintage cotton pillow cases I set to the task of sewing some love notes into them. The winter demanded a slow kind of work from me - I was also fresh off another winter depression and had just turned 30 - so a project that allowed me to work from my bed, or on the sofa, or lying on my bedroom floor was necessary.
One of the notes ‘I slept and dreamed that life was beauty’ is a quote from a Louisa May Alcott poem. I actually found a vintage pillow case from the 1900s on Etsy or Pinterest or something that was very beautifully adored with embroideries of nymphs and fairies and flowers and very impressive… I was inspired and wanted to make one of my own. As someone who is cursed with nightmares and sleepless nights I wanted to create a fairy tale nest in my bed. A magical and beautiful place to rest my head.
The second note is a line I found carved out of a leaf a few summers ago…
I whisper great love to you
It reminds me of the time I spent a summer running around in a magical haze of love and light. Long evenings and crisp duvets and candle lit tents. I wanted the embroidery on the pillows to feel very hand made, hand written - as if it were a love note left on the kitchen counter.
All the pillow cases and one of a kind sets are online now. And for you beautiful humans who like to keep up with my musings, I’d like to offer you a 15% discount - ‘M815’ to say thank you for reading (and maybe appreciating or relating to) my words.
Lots of love
El
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