musket
Well-known member
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I keep finding stuff I was sure I had posted in Sculpture, but apparently never did.
I carved this feather as a gift for our sadly late dear friend Abbijane Schifrin (nobody used her last name). Abbi was a NYC clothing designer who was a crucial connection to selling my work. Abbi knew everybody and everybody loved Abbi, including lots of people with deep pockets. She was one of those magic people who come along every so often, effortlessly charismatic (she was a tall girl, 5'11" with magnificent posture and carriage) but a great rarity in the cut-throat world of fashion--she could be an imperial pain the the tuchis, but she didn't have a mean bone in her body and was totally hamish (Yiddish for down home). This is her at fifty, still more beautiful than many women half her age. Less than a year later, she was dead of a cerebral aneurysm.
More than anything, an artist needs connections. Abbi was a perfect example of a connection found by sheer good luck. She was my sweetie's best friend, but I didn't know that when my sweetie and I met. Abbi believed in my work, and was directly or indirectly responsible for the sale of nine pieces. She refused to take a commission on any of them.
She specified the colors for the feather-- her own floor of her townhouse a block south of Gramercy Park was painted entirely in teal. The outdoor shot was taken in the small garden-courtyard of her townhouse.
Abbijane's Feather, 2002
Dogwood
Oils
Boar tusk
I carved this feather as a gift for our sadly late dear friend Abbijane Schifrin (nobody used her last name). Abbi was a NYC clothing designer who was a crucial connection to selling my work. Abbi knew everybody and everybody loved Abbi, including lots of people with deep pockets. She was one of those magic people who come along every so often, effortlessly charismatic (she was a tall girl, 5'11" with magnificent posture and carriage) but a great rarity in the cut-throat world of fashion--she could be an imperial pain the the tuchis, but she didn't have a mean bone in her body and was totally hamish (Yiddish for down home). This is her at fifty, still more beautiful than many women half her age. Less than a year later, she was dead of a cerebral aneurysm.
More than anything, an artist needs connections. Abbi was a perfect example of a connection found by sheer good luck. She was my sweetie's best friend, but I didn't know that when my sweetie and I met. Abbi believed in my work, and was directly or indirectly responsible for the sale of nine pieces. She refused to take a commission on any of them.
She specified the colors for the feather-- her own floor of her townhouse a block south of Gramercy Park was painted entirely in teal. The outdoor shot was taken in the small garden-courtyard of her townhouse.
Abbijane's Feather, 2002
Dogwood
Oils
Boar tusk
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