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I’m forever seeking the scene behind the scene.

The background noise.

I suppose it’s in part for my love of little tidings of life. 

Obscure beginnings for settings of stories

to be told.

Quite understandably that’s where my fascination for

theatrical stages began.

The framework for flamboyant happenings.

All the possibilities of layering life without the downstage pomp.

Settings with tidy fragments of coulisse and painted theatre props

in an organized manor with perfectly placed rows of trees to create depth.

All framed in glorious, velvetty, garish glitz.

Or as equally appealing are the organic spectacles.

Catawampus displays of decadent objects d’art and ambient fodder,

strewn to and fro as not be too predictable.

Yardage and swaths of drippy, drapery curtains

yielding Parnassian prose in swooping form.

All so artfully pulled back to draw your gaze in to reveal a bit of intrigue.

Luminous chandeliers mirroring the surroundings

to ever enhance the dreamscape.

Trees…oak, leafy and grand.

Forsanetti clouds, billowy, plump and tumultuous.

Cultivated pathways overgrown with woodbane

creating an alchemy of nature and magic.

So much natural life contained in a structured space.

I don’t factor in the players, the thespians,

just the view.

For me it’s all about mise en scene…

The back story, the flip side … what happens behind all the smoke and mirrors.   

Manna for the creative soul.

Oh, and the backdrops.

Textured, layered and soulful. 

I imagine the fortune of discovering an old painted stage scene,

tucked away to be discovered in an attic or forgotten room…

crackled, worn, ancient with beautiful fade.  

Once ostentatious, now fabled with patina.

For someone who’s never been to European

I seem to have nuances of that culture always buzzing in my head. 

Visions of flourishing Romanian rosemaling.

Once vibrant Gypsy hues now faded to tarnished perfection.

Gilded opulence, a bit broken yet still boujee.

I must at least be part faux Francophile with all those ancestral whisperings in my ear.

I have a profound appreciation for what goes on in the latent milieu.

What it truly takes to create something beautiful and meaningful.

The hours of painting, suspending, the lugging, the physical and the creative process

The planning the scheming and the follow through.

All the details behind the main attraction.

I have profound respect for those who forge the unsung content.

All the hours working out the issues and dreadful kinks.

All the trial and error to get a thing just so.

The laboring hands that fashion the infrastructure.

Their efforts will never go unnoticed with me.

Creating life as big as a dream,

or a dream as big as life. 

There is gold in the silence,

But for me it’s truly the need

for the dulcet, yet raucous tones.

The background noises beckon.

To view more of my photo shoot:

Markgrafliches Opera House
Pulling Back the Curtains to the Carnival Tent
Cirque du Soliel "Corteo"
The Abandoned Columbia Theatre
The Imaginarium of Dr Parnassus. Terry Gilliam
Marie Antoinette Theatre
In The Shadows. Manteau Noir IG

The Swoop of a Good Curtain by EveyD on Devianart
Theatre de Celestins

Updated: Sep 11, 2022

Down the velvet rabbit-hole I go.

Call it an obsession or passion or even law of attraction, but anything velvet induced shamelessly draws me in like a moth to a flame.

I could look at a mega-pint of sumptuous velvety images, feel buttery swatches or just hear the word “velvet”, like honey dripping in my ears, all the live-long, sing-song day.

Could it be the saturation of the colors againat the subtle variation of sheen and shimmer against the matte? or is it the the plush and pile? Dullness and the depth?

Maybe the richness in the history of lavish…

yes, and how that exudes some kind of portal back in time where the closeness of fashion and decor displayed in tandem trimmed and drippy with embroidery and embellishments.

Velvet was the standard of decadence.

Nipped-in waistcoats, accoutrements tipped with florets and millinery blossoms, tête à tête lounges shimmer and faded with embossed and cut velvets.

It‘s taking the most utilitarian and pragmatic object and slathering velvet over it that suddenly it’s transformed into a sea of laid back calm and top-drawer luxe.

How could anything be more lovelier than the vision of a deer‘s antlers in velvet ?

It just isn’t fair how velvet just has it all.

All salty and sweet, habitually rich and riddled with dappled flaws.

So clever.

It’s a thistledown of silken pampering and tantalizing Victorian.

A kismet collision of vixen and priggish.

It’s equal parts a thicket of sheen and pasture of deep hues.

Mind you, I haven’t forgotten the “Velvet Elvis” stage or “dogs with poker” tapestry, but it’s graciously forgiven.

I don’t need a season or a reason for velvet.

It hits me hard whether the weather.

Spring , summer, autumn, winter. I will carry it, don it, sit upon it.

So now that I’ve made my case for velvet I am literally making cases with velvet.

Silk-velvet, printed velvet.

Call them clutches, pouches or pochettes.

Either or, no matter.

I, for one cannot get enough.

To be tasked to pick a favorite would be cruel.

Each design beckons!

I hope you enjoy them as much as I did creating them.


Green And Teal Velvet Tufted Chairs Jacques Garcia via pinterest

Jennifer Lanne velvet pochette
"Timeless" Landscape Velvet Pochette

Tufted Pink Velvet via pinterest

Updated: Jul 27, 2022

Jennifer Lanne landscape art pillows

One of my favorite things to do is to walk down to the creek every morning ... sometimes twice a day, but who’s counting?

Well actually my iPhone is counting all my steps (and missteps) so I try to be as ambulatory as I can to impress my health app!

Spying and gawking at some wildlife is part of the mischief of the creek walk.

Most days my high hopes of spotting the elusive river otters are dashed.

I’ve seen the signs, yet never that lucky enough to peep in person.

Seeing multitudes of deer, turtle, muskrat, beaver, heron, waterfowl and the likes is pretty much par for the course.

The days of high summer usually drop the creek level to a gentle, yet untamed thing of beauty.. . and it’s my chance to merrily wade out while donning Wellies.

The other day I did just that.

What a different perspective it is from standing in the midst of something as opposed to the sidelines.

Something about being in the heart of something moving and ever-changing how a completely different perspective reveals itself … simple and profound.

So naturally I thought to myself … "Self, boldly/ridiculously place some chairs in the creek".

While you’re embarking on this tomfoolery why not set some artwork in the creek, oh and don’t forget to include some pillows for good measure.

I know, why oh why?

This I cannot intelligently offer a logical explanation for except that it inspired me so…. The lazy creek, the natural surround, the glassine reflecting surface.

To place yourself in the leafy, lush, layered depths of a Hudson River-esque School painting.

I know it’s madness, but it must be realized.

Compulsion? Sure, but I listen to the voices, it’s pointless to ignore them, they will just keep nagging me until the thing is done.

Maybe I’ve been channeling the Durrells in Corfu, enjoying their meals at a well-appointed table placed in the sea.

Is this a dreamlike mirage?

Mudlarker’s paradise found?

Or simply the vision of a covered wagon mishap that lost its load and parcel mid-river?

Bits and bobs of furnishings scattered about the creek, remnants of a poorly secured payload.

I'm hoping for the former rather than the later!

You would not be too far from the bull’s-eye if you were to accuse me of being obsessed with nature.

It’s ever-inspiring, ever-changing.

The best backdrop no matter the season.

I fully expect that when the weather changes and the Mourningkill is thick with ice I may be inspired once again.


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