For those who don’t know what I am referring to, some conversations between me and my friends in public must seem very odd. My friends often talk about their work, and so do I, with the delicate distinction that I, without the bat of an eyelid, can say things like “I did so and so many heads last week”, “tonight I’ll have to stuff a few more legs” or “working on the eye sockets drives me crazy sometimes”.
I remember especially one conversation that I had with a close friend of mine at a slightly crammed café. I told her about an accident with a sharp needle and, while sipping my tea, I said “I was doing the eyes of the girl and then I recognised there was a blood stain and then I had to remove the whole skin”. The lady next to us all of a sudden looked terrified and I was close to explaining to her that I am a dollmaker, not a pathologist, but she hastily paid and packed together her things. To this day I wonder what she thought I was working as…
The other day, I sent my friend (the one who was with me at the café in the situation described above) a message with a photo of my newest vintage treasures, about thirty large compote jars. I use them in my pantry to store food in, to put pretty things I’ve collected on display, as vases for my daily bouquets as well as storage for my studio.
I clearly must suffer from tunnel vision when I didn’t get the form of address my friend used in her reply after having sent her a photo of a large compote jar with the caption “perfect for storing limbs”. It seriously took me a minute or two to understand what she meant when she started her reply with
“Dear Mrs. Frankenstein…”
(now, back to all my compote jars, needle and thread – sending you a smile from my messy workspace ;-)