This isn’t a covert way of publicising my tiny cottage industry. You’d need to head over to my other blog for that. It’s just that most of my days at the moment are spent transforming, upcycling and creating tiny objects of various kinds from what most people would regard as junk, and it gives me an absurd amount of joy and satisfaction.
Back in the summer, I picked up this little 12th scale (that’s one inch to one foot) figure from a reject box at a miniatures fair.
Not difficult to see why he was a reject. He wasn’t, at first sight, the most promising of specimens, with his vacant stare, twisted legs and stringy hair, but I knew his day would come!
In some strange way, discovering the hidden potential in what others consider rejects is what has always given me the greatest pleasure. I remember the scruffy, fidgety boy I once taught who auditioned for a part in our school production of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolour Dreamcoat. I remember my pure delight as the clearest, most beautiful voice drifted across the room. The head teacher and I glanced at each other and smiled – Joseph! True, he took up many, many hours of rehearsals – far more than one of the bright young hopefuls who had expected the part would have done. True, I had to tape the complicated words of Close Every Door to Me to the floor of his prison cell, because he’d never have learnt them, but it worked perfectly and the pleasure of watching that kid revel in his hour or two of fame has stayed with me forever.
It was the same with the shy, quiet, dumpy little girl who produced a beautiful piece of writing. Before I handed back the class’s work, I read out this one piece and they were all staring round the room, wondering who had written it, mouthing, ‘You?’ to the high fliers and looking puzzled. That simple act, and then handing the work back to the young author with the words, ‘Superb work – well done’, was enough to raise that child’s self-esteem and status within the class to a ridiculous degree.
Sadly, my little porcelain doll had no esteem for me to raise, but when I decided I wanted to make a replica of one of my idols – Nikola Tesla – he was the one I chose. I looked beyond his defects to the long face, the high cheekbones, the firm chin and the centre-parted hair. The face was removed as easily as a spot of nail varnish and painted anew, the hair was cut, styled and recoloured. A tiny shirt, trousers and jacket were cut out and hand stitched. The dodgy leg was re-wired and, once dressed, Mr Tesla looked as proud as a small piece of porcelain, foam and wire could hope to.
And now, when I look at him sitting calmly in his experimental station, gazing at the coils and equipment I’ve been patiently wrapping in copper wire all week, I feel proud too!
This is what we all do – take something rough and unfinished and inject enough energy into it to allow it to transform it into something so much better.
I was just thinking about your miniatures! How odd that you put a post up on them. Mind you, It sounds like fun
That’s very strange, Sage, especially as I hardly ever mention them on this site! Yes, it is a ridiculous amount of fun.
My, what a magical transformation! Wonderful!
Thank you Susan. I think he looks better now!
Looks like the back of Nicola Tesla’s office is a lunch box and the floor started out as a portable typewriter cover. The attention to detail in the office is quite impressive. If you don’t mind my asking, how long do you think it took? Very interesting, particularly for collectors. Bob
The whole thing is a cardboard case with a metal handle from a stationery chain store in the UK. They seem to be sold as lunch boxes in the US, I make lots of room boxes in them, as they are easy for the owners to fold up and keep the dust off. This one took me a week to finish. Not working flat out, but whenever I got a chance. – Jan