2019 marks ten years of creating Prim Pumpkins! To celebrate this occasion, I thought I'd share how I make my clay for my characters.  Now, I think I found the original recipe online somewhere way back then. I really didn't like the consistency of the over the counter clays as they were way too wet.  So, I started learning about paper mache and paper mache clay. Like me, you will more than likely, begin with this recipe of ingredients and total tweak it as you  learn and grow.  When you begin, you should find a mixer to mix up your ingredients separate from your kitchen mixer. Also a zip lock bag or something air tight for keeping it.  
To begin you will take your roll of toilet paper and get it wet. You probably wont be using the same kind you buy for household use. You will want dollar store quality paper. After getting the paper wet, you gently squeeze the water back out. Then rip the paper apart and toss it in a bowl. Then add all of the other components to the bowl and mix!  If it's too wet I add cornstarch and if it's too dry I add more joint compound. Do this in teaspoon increments. 
This is air dry paper mache clay, so you have to be patient with it and work in layers.  Let each layer dry 100% before adding more clay or it will mold. 
I wish you magical bursts of creativity as  you begin! 
xxoo 
​Jennie 

Introducing... Prim Pumpkin Hedgehogs.  
Everyone knows, as the weather snaps the Tombs family seek hibernation. A long slumber, waking only when the weather is agreeable once more. It would be so cozy to just pull up the eiderdown around their hedgehoggie cheeks and nestle in. But this year when the snap happened, Mrs. Tombs and her family were in my studio, helping me prepare for a show. They missed their engraved invitation to hibernation and have decided to sprinkle their magic throughout the land…. Do you need a bit of hedgehog magic? The bristly kind, that lets you know it’s there?
Please meet Nickelton, he’s a sweet chap with a top hat and a pink tummy. He collects nickels, it’s his favorite bit of money, so if you find yourself missing one or two, look behind his ears.
Mrs. Tombs is a kitchen witch. She grows wild lavender right outside her back door and loves the fragrance it brings. She’s quite the little forager. She weaves a luscious web of enchantment where ever she goes. Mrs. Tombs loves to sit down in her favorite chair with some buttered toast and jam and dream up new spells. ​

Life is funny. You have to watch it so close.... Travel might be planned for your soul and you never knew. 

We make things for the journey that we didn't even know we were taking. 

See the whole collection in person at Bewitching Peddlers. 9/29/18 Calhoun County Fairgrounds, Marshall, MI 
​www.BewitchingPeddlers.com

To peek into my home would be to peek into a magical place filled with stories. Essentially, we are all stories. We edit, change and rewrite them as we travel. All of the books in my home have given me gifts that have become part of my adult identity. I take joy in the idea that I steeped my heart in the words of Ransom Riggs, Neil Gaiman and Roald Dahl. My Grandma used to tell us growing up, be careful of the company you keep because you become what they are… I have. I am essentially bits and piece of all the magical stories that I’ve read. Stitched together messily into a girl, who believes in the magical more than she believes in the mundane.
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This year, my collection for Bewitching Peddlers of Halloween is themed around oddity. The things that are viewed by some as odd, macabre or possibly even monstrous.   At the heart of any good story you will find someone who is a bit of a monster, but who just wants to be loved up.
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Swamp boy, who’s name is Forrest Benjamin Murkwater, woke in the dark of my studio one warm Summers night.  He opened one eye slowly and then the other. My face was the first face his eyes saw. So, he calls me Mama.   As he came to life, I could see that this one was full of rascality. He giggled at me as I tried to sew clothing for a boy with webbed hands. I can’t tell you how many times he hid his socks in the studio before I could snug them on his feets and slip on his time-worn shoes. I told him the story of Paddington Bear, Coraline and the Tales of the Peculiar Children as I worked on his heart.  His heart was the last thing to finish.  I wanted to make my little monster boy both startling and loveable.  He hates pickles but loves Swedish fish, he loves sailboats and kites but hates football. His heart is good, but it’s lonely. On an enchanted piece of old parchment, I penned this sentiment by Caitlyn Seihl. It read “When is a monster not a monster? When you love it.” I folded the paper up into a tiny bit and placed it in the open chamber of his heart. I kissed my pinky finger and pressed the chamber closed and put his heart into his chest.
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Forrest, my little Swamp boy, stood up on my work table and frowned because all at once, he felt everything. All of the things I had filled his heart with were at the surface. I had given him a heart transfusion consisting of my fears, my hurt, my sadness as well as my love, my dreams and my magic.  He was in pain and alive at the same time.
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Forrest sat on the edge of my work table and I offered him my hand. He took it.  He climbed quietly into my lap and just sat with me for a long time. Anytime an artist creates something that was not there before they are giving part of themselves to do so.  Forrest listened to me as I made him. His pieces and parts scattered on my table.  He is my tears and my laughs, he is stories of childhood mischief. He is a story of eating breakfast and then going to Grandmas, only to spin a tall tale of hunger and having a second breakfast. He is monster, enveloped in a person who is magic.
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The cathartic process of making is one that many artists take. I am not special. I am, however able to offer it up as a story, a little morsel of how I make. Just maybe my stories will become part of your story, my dear.  
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​"Being an artist means forever healing your own wounds and at the same time endlessly exposing them."  Annette Messager





































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​Creating is my life, so it's only natural that I include you in the very bitter sip of life that I am drinking. My Mom died. Quite unexpectedly she had a stroke.  Everyone dies, I know that. I can't believe she's in a better place because here was pretty wonderful and we all loved her hard. She was the very first collector of my work, when it was not very good at all. Going to her home is an odd feeling for me because she has my art dolls going back to my first ones in 2009 and creeping forward. She displayed them proudly even if they weren't my best and she always insisted on buying them instead of letting me just giving them to her. She was a very good Mom. My grief is deep and profound. 

My Mom is interwoven into the tapestry that is me. She was my first home and my first love. She inspired magic. The fairies loved her. She encouraged my children to leave bits of cake in the garden for the them. I imagine they wept for her passing because the world has a lot less Pixie Dust now. Or maybe they welcomed her to their land?  It is my hope that in the days ahead I am able to hold tight to the threads of magic my Mom inspired and  make sure my children have her woven into their tapestry. 

​The last piece I shared with my Mom was my bearded girl child, I call her Phillamane. This piece is one of my favorites as it celebrates the divine magical individuality in each of us.  

​My bearded girl child is a compilation of many elements and curiosities. I hand mixed the palette for her, concocting hues from a Victorian dream, where clouds are lavender and cotton candy tastes like violet water. Her garments are all antique and vintage textiles, which is a passion of mine. The simple juxtaposition of burlap and ancient lace feels perfectly fitting.  She will be offered at Bewitching Peddler's of Halloween in the Fall. 
xxoo 
​Jennie 

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Then along came Millie Tinker. Inspired by Jo Jo, Millie is a delicate beauty, Child of the Dog Faced Man. She is dressed in hand sewn antique garments and is completely hand sculpted. I took great care in finding just the perfect fabrics for her. She has the earthen look that is consistent with the body of my work, yet she has enveloped a certain elegance in her personality. Millie holds a broken doll, this symbolizes the brokenness in all of us. I am working on her sister as I write this.
 
​Many artisans struggle with acceptance of their person and works. When we are crafting the broken parts of our being into new work it's easy to fall into self-doubt talk that tells us the broken parts are not worthy. That our odd nature will not be welcomed. In the art world, I have quietly learned that everyone is odd. Everyone one is fractured, even if it's a slight crack or crazing. When we find ourselves in the firefly light of a success we all feel like we don't quite belong there. 
​I think much of creating is about the fractures and what you allow in, to damn them up. I am more than content allowing the whispers of a sideshow just getting into town, the smell of an antique book shop, the mysterious pull of cryptozoology, and the wonder of the witching hour to wisp into the fissures of brokenness and infuse my blood with the magic that is Prim Pumpkin. 
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The post arrived last week with a bit of supplies for me to work up. I will mix my latest paint palette for Fall 2018 and perfect the hard edges before I apply it to a doll. More and more I find that when I receive something from the post it is an extravagant opening party. The kids gather around to see if it's toys or candy, but when they see it's not they still watch me open the parcel. Now granted, they both love to watch the videos on YouTube where adults open little eggs to reveal candy and gumball machine toys! It's all such a surprise!

​A few weeks ago I received a package from France. I have a friend there who looks for bits and bobs for me to use in my work. So, she packed it up and send it on to America. She had found some old black lace and wrapped it in individual pieces of tissue paper. As we sat and opened each piece, my daughter and I dreamed a dream of what had been. What was the lady like who had this piece of lace stitched in her garment? What tales could it tell? It joys me to show the kids things from the past, our home is a virtual reliquarium.  I feel like by using aged pieces in my work, I am saving the memory that is housed in the fabric. Almost like, the fabric holds a history and I honor it by making something anew. There are some pieces that I've had for 20 years or more and I've done nothing with it but keep it. Keep it's memory or possibly it's story intact. I can almost feel it's history in my hands. Some of my collection will never be used. It will just be kept. 

​I've been moving ahead with my owl boy. He has a name now. I've been calling him Opal, Opie for short. He is now winged and by the end of the week I  hope to have him clothed. Baby steps! 
I hope your week is lovely, ​
​xxoo

When I was small, l I would go golf ball hunting with my stepfather. We would park the car and get our bags, heading into the wooded woods next to the golf course. Golf ball hunting was such a gloriously fun task. It was like hunting for Easter eggs but more rouge. Many times, I would find golf balls that were hit into the woods and place them gingerly into my little grocery sack and later realize that I snagged the bag on a stick and put a hole in it, losing the bounty of my foraging along the way! Not many words were spoken on these little quests, the woods spoke in windy whispers and the ground chimed back in decay.
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On this particular occasion it was the beginning of Fall and I was seven and a half years old. We were in the woods early as it is illegal to golf ball hunt in the woods next to the golf course.  I was like a baby crow, enamored by fungus and shiny things, while every once in awhile spotting a golf ball and collecting it in my bag. All of sudden my stepfather spoke in a quiet and low tone, “don’t move” he said, I was immediately frightened. He was looking up into the low branches of a tree and now, so was I. We both set our gaze on this huge thing. It could have been a bird or a person, I was not sure.  The only thing I was sure of was that I was looking at it’s back and then it’s head turned and I saw the owly face. My stepfather told me to walk slowly back to the car and under no circumstances was I to run. I took another few looks at the giant owl in the tree and walked steadily back to the car. My stepfather following closely behind.  
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When we were both safely in the car, I asked him what it was. He said it was the largest owl he’d ever seen in his life and I told him that I thought it was the size of a man or a boy. We agreed that it was more the size of a boy and rode toward home in quiet. In my seven-year-old mind I concocted an anthropomorphic owl child that flew though the woods frightening golf ball hunters…. From that day on there was Bigfoot, Yeti, Loch ness monster, the water rat (which I later discovered was my aunt in a brown blanket) and Owl boy.  
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In the weeks that followed we didn’t talk about it, but it was in the recesses of my mind. My stepfather had his friends over to play poker one evening and my mother tucked me into bed but I always listed to their banter before I drifted off. On this night the conversation centered upon the owl. He told them about seeing the monster bird in the wood and his fear that it could, if it wanted, swoop down and steal me away.  They all had indulged a bit and were a little tipsy but one of the men said, "Bill, how big do you think the owl was?” “Oh, an easy 4ft tall” he replied.  My smile widened a little more because I too was 4 ft. tall. The owl boy was my same height which made me feel akin to him in some way.
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Now, it could be said that my stepfather only took me with him because if we were caught hunting golf balls illegally, he would probably be let go if he had a child along with him. Possibly the owl was not 4ft. tall, but he was huge and lastly, he could have been all owl and not part boy, but he will live in my imagination till the day I die as owl boy.
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Now, fast forward to 2017. I was looking at the work of American painter Lori Nelson. She has a cryptotween series that touched my heart and as I became drawn in, there he was... Owl boy on the subway.  I immediately was transported back to my seven-year-old self and the magic I felt to have conjured my own Owl Boy. My own mysterious bridge between the mythical and the woods.

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I began sculpting with a feverish impetus. I had him in my mind again and now and as doll maker, I would create him. I had a need to deliver him from my imagination into my magical world. As I sculpted, I took liberties with him. The original Owl Boy from my memory had gained an anthropomorphism about him. He didn’t wear clothing last time I saw him and he wasn’t foraging for mushrooms, but he was real and he was my bridge to magic.  

​** My owl boy is 19 inches tall. He has been sewn using vintage and found fabrics. I used my sewing machine and hand stitching to accomplish his look. He is hand sculpted using papier mache and hand mixed clay. I've mixed my paint by hand, like I always do, concocting magical recipes for each doll.  I call him Opal, Opie for short and he will make his debut at Bewitching Peddlers of Halloween fine art show in Marshall, Michigan this Fall.  
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Since way before Christmastime I've been working on a new  collection of unearthed little beings. They are more real than they are clay.  More alive than anything I've ever created.  I've taken a journey deep into myself and taken stock of what's important to me and I have decided to stay here. Here is good. 

​The whole month of January has been a exercise in patience, mostly with my own process. I feel like with each new piece I relearn my process, but really after reflection I see that I am evolving, not relearning. 
​The art of making magic  is a serious one. 
​love to you