A handmade life cuts to essentials

I think my cutting and pasting habit all started with the Sears Roebuck catalogue during my childhood in the 1960s. With 6-year-old precision I cut out men, women and children and placed them face up for review and selection. Decisions were made regarding which husband belonged to which wife; followed by the selection of their children. All of these spousal and offspring assignments were made capriciously, mostly for reasons related to fashion and hair color.

I spent many happy afternoons creating stories with characters that were probably clad in stretch pants, turtleneck tunics and bell bottoms.

I had nearly forgotten the fun of cutting and pasting until 12 years ago when I picked up a copy of the best-seller "Simple Abundance: A Daybook of Comfort and Joy." Heeding the advice of its author, Sarah Ban Breathnach, I started an "illustrated collage journal." Working with glue, scissors, vintage papers, magazines, old patterns and other embellishments, I began an experiment that took on a life of its own.

Collage and assemblage art expanded from my journal to cigar boxes, canvases, old books — and any unclaimed surface within a 10-mile radius. I grew to love the visual and tactile aspects of collage, and it became a daily practice.

Roughly 100 bottles of Modge Podge later, I carried my wares to a local craft fair. In the light of day, my handmade boxes, altered books and canvases seemed unpolished and childish. I began to question both my "art" and my "self." This insecurity was fed by a boutique owner who told me my pieces wouldn't sell in her shop because they had "rough edges." She told me: "People want things that look mass produced — perfect."

Although discouraged, that small voice within beckoned, and I persevered — cutting, pasting, writing, drawing, sewing, singing all the while wondering if my "art" mattered.

One of my creations was made from a child-size dress form that I painted, paper-machéd and then covered with a collage of vintage paper dolls, pearls, buttons, lace, and dried flowers. Multiple layers of pink tulle served as the skirt. I affectionately named her Princess Polly Loves Pink.

I rented space at a local antique mart and a successful vendor in a nearby booth offered this advice about Princes Polly: "That won't sell here, not in this economy."

I was chagrinned. I shouldn't want external validation, but I did. And I was again left asking myself if my artistic pursuit had any importance to any living person outside of myself.

I thought about the work of Clarissa Pinkola Estes, author of "Women Who Run with the Wolves." Estes writes about the instinctual nature of women, and the return to a "handmade life."

Upon reflection, I was reminded that cutting, pasting, writing and creating was the brilliant genesis of my handmade life — an original life, one with rough edges — not smooth or perfect ones.

I came to realize that living a handmade life is a process and it is the process that is worthy and important. Whether anyone else validates art that is created during this sacred process is of no consequence. Living a handmade life isthe worthy end, not selling what I create.

Just as the handmade lives of Sarah Ban Breathnach and Clarissa Pinkola Estes have inspired me, I hope my process calls forth the creative and instinctual nature in others.

In a culture where perfect teeth, plastic surgery and amassing wealth and possessions seem to be the order of the day, living a handmade life returns me to myself and the things that really matter.

And it turns out that my handmade life might actually be relevant to someone else, because Princess Polly sold for $122 shortly after being displayed at the antique mart.

Maybe, just maybe, the new owner of Princess Polly will be inspired to start cutting and pasting; ever widening the circle of women returning to a handmade life.