The Legs Fall Off If You Move It

On this day, just a little over a year ago, a crazy idea began to form in my head.  It was on this day that I discovered that creative reuse centers existed out there in the world, but just not in Houston. 

Also on this day, a little over a year ago:

1.  I was one month free of my decades-long service to a company I had left when I finally accepted I could no longer be successful there by my own standards.

2.  I was savoring my few-weeks-old MBA from the University of Texas’ Houston program, where two years of hard work and revelation helped me to understand what my standards for success even are, and, more importantly really, what they’re not.   And many thanks to Prof John Doggett and others for beating me about the head and shoulders until I finally looked up and saw the light. 

3.  I was knee deep in piles of my grandparents’ things, saved for me by my mother when their house was sold in Columbia, SC, and newly transported back to my house in Houston, where I would … what?  Make something out of them?   Way too much stuff to ever use, but things I couldn’t throw away, but which I couldn’t imagine Goodwill would take – weird old garage stuff and odd pieces of things and broken stuff and the miscellaneous dribbles of a long life.  But, they were unpacked and piled around my living room and hallway and dining room, just sitting there for days on end.

So, I decided to make something.  But, I still lacked some materials, so I headed off to Home Depot to buy them.  While I’m standing in line with a bunch of new stuff that I’m going to take home and break or rust or otherwise render useless, I think that this is stupid and there must be a place that has what I need.   So, I turned to Google and found that there are such places, but just not in Houston. 

Serendipity, Rick Besanko would call it.   Or, kismet, a message from the universe or The Great Gazoo — whatever it was, I was finally in a place to get the message, see the signs, and embark on this crazy scheme.

Fast forward to August 7, 2010.  I am standing in G Gallery, attending the opening of Brian Neal Sensabaugh’s “Bless My Sole”.  I first met Brian Neal when he came into the store about a week after we opened, although “met” doesn’t really do it justice.  It’s more like he finally arrived, or took us all hostage, or electrified us one Saturday afternoon.  He had an idea for an assemblage series that involved shoes and feet, all of which we had in massive quantity.  We also had old wooden shoe forms and beat up old dolls and vintage doilies and my grandfather’s crutches, which he used after being shot while making an arrest in Columbia, SC in the 1950’s, and which had been in the rafters of his garage ever since.  Anyway, Brian Neal loved what we had, and we loved him (and James).  We laughed, we cried, and then we laughed some more. 

Brian Neal found the Texas Art Asylum in the following way:

1.  I had sent out a metric ton of press releases around Earth Day, letting a number of media outlets know we would be opening in May.  These were met with a resounding snore by each media outlet except one lady who wrote for Tidbits, who suggested I get back in touch when we were actually open. 

2.  So, we opened, I got back in touch, and she came by to see if we were right for Tidbits.  We weren’t, but she said we could be good for a piece in the Chronicle, and she’d be back with a photographer.  (Still waiting on that ….)That next Saturday, she happened to be at the Guild Shop and happened to run into Brian Neal, and told him he had been on her mind all week because she was thinking about how he would love the Texas Art Asylum.

3.  He came right over.  We laughed, we cried, etc.

In addition to unearthing treasures that inspired him and making several return trips, Brian Neal has become a tireless booster for our business and has told virtually everyone he knows or sees or meets in passing that they must come by and see us.  He has been instrumental in our success to date, and there is no expression of thanks adequate to convey my appreciation for what he has done for us.

But, back to our story – I’m at G Gallery, at Brian Neal Sensabaugh’s opening, and I walk in the door, look up at the ceiling, and see my grandfather’s crutches hanging there as part of the very first piece I see.   And, somehow, without knowing exactly how or who or when, this is exactly what I had envisioned that the still unnamed, nonspecific, WTF that would become the Texas Art Asylum could be exactly one year before.  Exactly.  To the day.  And, the crutches, fresh from their 50 years wait in the garage and flying from the ceiling of an art gallery in Houston  …  there just aren’t words.

Right.  So, OK.  June … happened, and here we are at almost the end of July.  We’ve been open for eight weeks, and each one has been better than the last. 

Overall — You really, really like us.  Some of you have been back several times already, sometimes with friends in tow.  Some of you are completely nuts.  Some of you are just skimmers, and browse around for a few minutes on your way to somewhere else.  Some of you stay for an hour or two, looking at every single thing on each shelf, making piles at the checkout counter and then editing and re-editing them before you are satisfied with your final decision.  And, all of you are welcome back, except for that one lady.  You know who you are.  If you’re reading this and wondering if it’s you, it’s not, because that lady is not wondering. 

Incontrovertible Morsel of Truth – Everything Takes Longer Than You Expect.  It makes me laugh to even type it, but it has taken so much longer to get unpacked and set up than I could.have.ever. imagined.    We are way behind on the class schedule and lab hours, because the classroom still looks like it took a direct hit from a missile stuffed with doll parts and feathers and frogs and drawer pulls and pom poms and typewriters and card stock and sheet music and fabric scraps and overhead projectors.  It will be at least clean and functional no later than this Friday, although fancy décor touches will still be pending.  The delay is caused by an unbelievable generosity of spirit and several significant destashes on the part of your fellow Houstonians.  Donations have arrived by the truck load, which is great, and thanks to you all.

Ye Olde Staff — Stress fracture to left foot, carpal tunnel in both hands and its cousin, cubital tunnel, in left elbow.  Ow.  Do not recommend any of these.    In desperate need of a haircut and a pedicure.   Pretty damn happy, regardless.

The building — Location is great.  The roof leaves everything to be desired, however.  Outside, you have exhibited great creativity in your parking solutions, but the bus stop by the front door is not recommended.

Most commonly heard around the store – 1.  Where did you get all of the:  a.  cigar boxes, b. doll parts, c. frogs, d. faucet handles, e. yarn, f. etc, g. etc; 2.  This is overwhelming; 3.  Everything is so organized; 4.  I wish you were around a couple months ago.  I just got rid of a ton of <something we would have died to have>.

That last one really kills me.

Funny thing — Guy comes up to me, stands about three inches from my face and demands, “Are you the one that writes the blog?” 

Me: “Yes.” 

Guy:  “It’s funny.  Say something funny.”

Me:  “Did you have onions on your chili dog at lunch today?”

Turns out that was only funny to one of us.

This is the greatest job  ever.  Look at this.  Do you know what it is?

It’s someone’s reading list, I would guess.  But whose?  Let’s look on the other side, shall we?

It’s the reading list of  Lizzie K. Miller, from September 24, 1894.  That’s EIGHTEEN NINETY-FOUR, people!  It’s a reading list from 116 years ago, when Lizzie K. Miller was in Grade 9, and it’s in my hands right now, having fallen from an old book.  Amazing.  They call this kind of stuff ephemera because it was not made to last forever.  I guess this list found a good home inside that book, though, and here it is.  Just amazing.

And, nice handwriting there, Lizzie.

The chairs finally arrived.  Thus ends two weeks of sitting on a paint bucket.  Ahhhhh…

Meanwhile, packing packing packing packing packing packing packing packing packing packing, to be followed by days of unpacking.  

I am really so excited, I can hardly stand it, waking up every day with a Christmas morning kind of feeling.  I was thinking the other day that this is really the ultimate creative endeavor, making something from nothing, and moving it from crazy idea to reality has been thrilling and hard and scary, but mostly thrilling.  I’m sure that there will be more hard and scary times to come, but I hope they are outweighed by a continued joy and thrill in my new everyday.

And, if you are within the sound of my voice, or the reach of my typing, not to put too fine a point on it, but  … I hope you will please come buy something.

Oh, my.  So I got sick of packing, and figured I’d start going through some of my own stuff to weed out what I would keep from what I would donate.  It’s like going through one of those geological core samples.  Here’s the epoch where I thought I would make cards.  This is hilarious, because I don’t even send the pre-made kind.  Card stock, fancy papers, various stick on doodads?  To the giveaway pile.

Here’s the phase where I thought I would be a glass painter.  This is hilarious, because I can’t paint.  Glass?  To the giveaway pile.  Glass paint?  Um, I don’t know.  Let’s set that aside. 

Here’s the phase where I was evidently making a lot of something (what?) out of Styrofoam balls and raffia.  Those things were so happy to get out of the closet, they hopped into the box of their own volition.  I think I must have had the Styrofoam balls since we lived in Virginia, which was pre-1995.  Those, plus wallpaper and artificial flowers (seems like I like purple, and pink, and white … seems like I’m an eight year old girl?), some fabric, and one million other things. 

The part that made me start to worry about myself was the area under my work table.  There were:  enough empty paper towel tubes to MORE THAN FILL a copy paper box, even when stacked neatly, row by row, in my best OCD fashion.  And there was a comparable number of the less glamorous TP tubes.  And there was a bag FULL of giant Maxwell House coffee cans.  I can’t remember the last time we drank Maxwell House, or if we ever did, and I can’t imagine that it was ever in the FIVE POUND size.  Maybe I got these from somewhere else?  Dunno. 

So, point being, I filled up giant black trash bag (no longer suitable for yard waste, since Houston now requires these tiny little bags that will only hold a tablespoon or two of yanked out Bermuda grass and cost $8.5 million) after giant trash bag, and box after box with all of the above, plus ceiling tiles (good for bulletin board and cutting board making), index cards (more than 5 packs in each size known to man), clear glass Christmas ornaments (for abandoned decoupage idea), and on and on and on.  And on.  It was stunning, really.  And a little horrifying.  Am I a  hoarder?  Where is the line? 

And, that doesn’t start to scratch the surface of most of the fabric (incl yards of Pendleton wool circa late 1978, when I worked at Barbie’s Fabric Shop in Springfield, VA), or the patterns, or the magazines (dear Lord), or the yarn, or the books, or the Shiny Brite ornaments from a vintage ornament wreath-making phase, or the paper stuff I’ve saved up since the dawn of time.  I started on the paper stuff, but had to stop.  Right on top was a white paper bag, printed with pink roses, from Mae’s in Lexington, SC, where my grandfather would take my grandmother shopping for a new dress whenever she wanted.  He would sit and wait so patiently while she looked and tried on whatever Mae’s had in brown or tan or taupe or beige, and he would tell her she looked pretty in all of them.  And she would pick one, which he would buy for her (she never carried money), and then they would go to lunch.  So, I took this bag, and I put it in the giveaway box, because the roses are pretty and it’s old enough to be officially called ephemera, but then I took it out.  But then I thought, “Well, I’ll still be able to see it at the store every day,” so I put it back in the box.  But then I thought, “But what if somebody BUYS IT?!?!” and I snatched it out of the box and put it back in the drawer where it has been for I don’t know how long, and that was the end of that little project.  

So, you tell me.  Sick hoarder, eight year old girl, or what?

OK, folks.  Let’s just assume going forward that I’ll start every post with an apology about not posting for so long.   So, assume please.

LOTS going on.  Signed a lease for 1230 Houston Avenue, which is just north of Washington Ave and conveniently reached (defined by me as no more than three turns off the big road) from I-10 and 45.  Signing the lease started the giant ball rolling on the facility-related stuff — demo, lighting, paint, store fixtures, moving, packing, utilities (AT&T and Green Mountain), and changing the business address and phone number on everything — so, it’s a lot, on top of what already felt like a lot. 

What I’m trying to do is get everything that is not related to one of those things listed above checked off the list and behind me by tomorrow, and then I’ll be able to focus 100% on the move and then the giant UNPACKING to follow next month.  But, as I have discovered over the past few months, I really like buying the materials and organizing the materials just about exactly as much as I like actually using the materials, so this should be a really fun phase for me. 

So, what else am I doing?  Working on marketing and advertising, working on licenses and forms, making lists, and moving money around by the bag full.  I’m good for the economy.  What else?  Lots of little learning steps along the way.  An overnight soak in vinegar will un-rust the rustiest nuts and bolts from each other.  This amazed me.  Oh, also?  Mothballs are THE DEVIL.  I got two old wool blankets, forewarned that there was a moth ball odor.  Once my allergies cleared out a little, I could smell the mothballs an entire room away from the shipping box that still had the blankets taped up inside.  Since I bought them to felt anyway, I unpacked them and threw them in the washer.  And then we practically had to move out of the house for a week.  Seriously.  There was a trail of odor from where I opened the box all the way to the laundry room.  And the smell in the washer, in the words of my friend, Micky, would knock a buzzard off a gut wagon.  And, soaking and washing them over and over, even with vinegar and oxyclean, didn’t do anything but make the smell laugh at me.  The only thing that did work was putting them outside and letting the air and sunlight do their work.  But, even there, we had intermediate stages of gross — at one point smelling like a wet dog bed (the blankets, not me) –  and the colors faded.  The washer still has a faint odor when I open it, despite busting open a can of whup-ass on it.  So, my advice to you, Internet, is this — just say no to the mothballs.  

Quick inventory update — really cool old furniture hardware, some old lamp finials and other parts, and a ton of horse show rosette ribbons in a rainbow of colors. 

Here’s a picture of part of what the checkout counter will look like.  These are the formerly black beauty shop cabinets.  Came out nice, I think.  That light blue is going to be the ceiling color, and the base color of the cabinet will be the wall color.   Hope you will all come visit it in person next month.

One other thing — lots of people have been asking what they can do to help.  Starting this very weekend, The Center for Recycled Art is going to have a TON of donated materials that need to get sorted, cleaned, packed, unpacked, priced, ooh’ed and aah’ed over, and otherwise treated like the treasures they are.  If you feel so inclined, let me know and we’ll make a plan to make good use of your good intentions.  Eventually, the website will have volunteer information on it, but that’s a to-do item on one of the lists mentioned above.  So, anywho, if you’d like to help, lemme know.  Earth Day is upon us, you know.  No pressure …

It’s really beautiful in Houston about 20 days out of the year.  These are accompanied by massive pollen counts.   So, we are all DYING to be outside, and then we DIE once we get out there.

I sound like Lurch, and my eyeballs feel like they are going to pop out of my head any time I lean forward for any reason.  I feel like all would be well if I could just take out each eyelash, scratch around inside the little whatever you call it that the eyelash came out of (follicle?),  and then put each eyelash back in.  And this is with two kinds of prescription allergy medicine — one pill I take every day, and a nose spray I use as necessary.  Seriously.  Enough with the pollen already.  I have a lot of weeds to attend to before the mulch can get from the driveway to the flower beds, and I am really resisting the idea of some kind of mask/hazmat suit for working in the yard, although it would be quite fetching.  (Shut up, Tom.)

Some interesting turns in the business lending arena.  Suffice it to say that we WILL be opening in May, dammit.  Or DAMmit, if you’d prefer.  And, I’m hoping the lease will be signed some time this week, so we can get to work on the space.   It needs a closet torn down, some carpet removed, some lights and paint added, but that’s about it.

Got some cool old cabinets from an old-school beauty shop (NOT salon) that will be lined up and used as the check out counter.  Lots of doors and drawers that I’m sure I can manage to stuff with all kinds of crap.  Also got a bunch of old plastic hair curlers and permanent rods, and the old squiggly u-shaped hair pins.  Haven’t seen any of the old prickly black kind of curlers that my grandmother used.  I guess once people had another option, they burned all of those at the stake or something.  They were complete torture devices, and exactly like getting stabbed in the head with a thousand needles if you had to sleep in them.  Also very tangly to remove if your hair was too long but you insisted that your grandmother roll your hair up in them anyway but then you took them out because you felt like you were stabbed in the head with a thousand needles. 

I’ve been putting off dealing with the merchant services account we will need to accept credit cards.  It gives me a headache every time I start to read through everybody’s fine print.  There are different fees for plain credit cards v. debit cards v. reward cards, and transmission fees, and monthly usage and reporting fees, and every company is a little bit different.  Yeesh.  Wonder how people would respond if there was a $50 floor on credit card purchases?  Poorly, I’d guess, but that’s about where it needs to be.  May have to do $10 like at the Wee Mart and let the chips fall.  And, I’m seriously considering a 2% discount for all cash and debit card purchases, because they are WAY cheaper than credit card sales will be, and it seems like the shopping folk ought to share in some of that benefit. 

Here’s an off-topic picture for you.  Hard to see, but that’s part of the beauty of that whole nature thing, you know.  Natural camouflage (ha!  Not going to tell you how I spelled that the first time around).  Anyway, looks like a very tired squirrel in front of a pretty sizable squirrel nest that will soon be covered up by wisteria leaves.  Maybe we’ll get to see some baby squirrels?

Now zoomed and blurrier.  Would have been better with a camera instead of the phone, but phone was all I had.   This ain’t National Geographic, folks.  Get used to it.

Seems like, with all this hardware going on, the last thing this doll would lose would be her head.