Dali's Jewels

Last December I went with Fawn and Trent to a Salvador Dali exhibit. All three of us are huge Dali fans (Surrealism being something I hold near and dear to my heart) so we were incredibly excited.

What I didn't know about Dali was that he also created surrealist jewelry. Including my favorite piece:

The fully articulated Starfish Brooch.


Not only is this a fully articulated Starfish (as in it was designed to be able to wrap around your hand/wrist), but it is made with a stunningly huge pearl, rubies, emeralds and diamonds for a one of a kind gorgeous piece. I've never seen such a beautiful starfish.

This is my favorite piece for a multitude of reasons, but mostly because even though it is completely made from jewels it manages to not be gaudy and ridiculous looking. Plus it is able to be moved and wrapped however you may want. A famous actress once wore this piece, provocatively, on her breast.

This is a drawing of the design and the articulation of the brooch as done by Dali.


In my search of Dali Jewelry, I discovered this piece by one Elsa Schiaperelli.


This lobster brooch is definitely Dali-esque in my mind. Not only in its relation to the sea (as the Starfish), but in its simplistically complex and beautifully realized design. It is the concept of creating beauty out of something that is generally disregarded by the public as common place and ugly that most attracts me. Personally. And, as it turns out, Ms. Schiaperelli was a fan of Dali's surrealism, which may or may not have inspired her to create this particular piece.

Whilst looking at some other pieces by Ms. Schiaperelli, I discovered these Leopard Skin Booties. If they weren't real leopard skin (which I don't believe they are) I would actually considering wear this particular pair. If only because I think of them as simplistically designed. I like simple.


And, because the internet is a strange place and I started thinking about other types of jewelry and beautiful things, here is a delicate piece by Fabrege, creator of Fabrege eggs.


He, too, apparently found under sea life worthy of jewelry pieces as you can see from this Sea Horse.


While we are talking about Fabrege, what is it about Fabrege's eggs that makes them so beautiful? What is it about Eggs themselves that makes them beautiful? I don't really understand it myself, but every since I was young I've loved things that were egg shaped. I have a little glass jewelry egg decorated with painted roses that holds my change. I have a little egg shaped perfume bottle that my Aunt Peggy gave me when I was 10 or so. Well, for that matter I have a pineapple shaped perfume bottle she gave me too, but that has nothing to do with eggs.

Maybe, for me, it just goes back to the simplicity of it. Or maybe it goes back to how we all come from some type of egg and the beginning of life? For whatever reason, eggs are beautiful.


This particular egg is Jade. One of my favorite precious stones. Except that I prefer White Jade.


I don't know why I like this one. Except that I think it is pretty.


I am done rambling for the moment. I'm starting to get tired and I think it is nap time for this blogger. I hope you enjoyed my randomness on jewelry, sea creatures and eggs. I'm off to try to get "Jack Sparrow" by the Lonely Island feat. Michael Bolton out of my head.

Illuminati (Illuminated)

Harlequin dances about the floor, surrendering to Demons
and Angels, silhouettes and innocent shadows. She stands,
mythical and poetic, spinning her dreams out like darkened
spider webs. Caught by her own vanishing nightmares.

Violent and gentle, she spins and twirls, the ribbons flying
up and fluttering to the floor. Above her the sky seems to
burn, the horizon is downcast and she is tied to this hideous
form. Circled by Hell's vicious dogs.

Silky are the voices that call her inside, bluer than the moon
outside the painted glass. They tease her, push and pull her
down. Violet sunlight floods the circle that divides Heaven from
her Hell, tied to the knives spinning round.

Lacy snow falls in the midst of summer's tears. Pink and Ivory
against the erratic world flowing into her. She studies the
imperfections of a rose, standing before the Court of the moon
and her lovers. Dulcimers play at the edge of her sanity.

Fiery kiss upon her cursed lips, a virescent larkspur to
resurrect her. Now fanged, she lets the blood flow, the
honeyed lies and sweet brokenness take control. Her womb
is bleeding, rape the soul. Shatter the glass, make it whole.

Adorned in bloody rubies, glittering in the darkness of the sun.
She stands, new born. Two has become one, Harlequin no
more. Let the walls that have imprisoned her vanish as she
rises to shine. Illuminated by her own silver tongue.

1961 (a short story)

Current mood: Creative

Present

Looking back, glancing over his life.

The past and the regrets.

Quiet and calm, he holds the gun to his temple and pulls the trigger, he holds her picture to his heart as the blood stains the pillow, his head falls backs.

Clutched to him, she is frozen in time and memory.

She is not his wife.

Past

A string of pearls encircle an ivory throat. She stands in front of the hallway mirror, gazing off into space and time, dreaming of nights long since forgotten in the abyss of memory and life. She tries to tear her eyes away from the pearls against her skin, tries to forget the reason they will never be her own. She looks into the dark blue eyes of a stranger, her doppelganger and twin, but a complete stranger. Her hand, coming up from her hips, falls back from those white drops of sand and lies placidly against the fabric of her skirt.

A voice calls somewhere in the distance, she turns from the mirror and another hand comes up to remove the pearls that now threaten to strangle her. She tears them away from her skin, the string breaking and pearls bursting from their captor’s hands to scatter on the mahogany floor. She doesn’t even stop to pick them up and, instead, runs away from the voice and out of the house. She tries to erase the image of pearls hitting the wooden floor, tries to un-hear the sound of them tinkling and the voice calling.

She loved him.

Past

He stands next to the reverend performing the ceremony, flanked by four gentlemen in black tuxedos. He watches his bride, on the arm of her father, float down the aisle. She is beautiful. Long, silky, blonde hair flowing down her back, tiny violets entwined in twin braids tied behind her head. She smiles at him, a timid smile, a rosy blush deepens across her face. Light blue eyes flick from the floor to him, barely meeting his gaze. As she turns to receive a kiss from her father, those eyes never leave his, blazing and bright.

He takes her hand, facing her as his performance begins. This will be his most brilliant of pieces. He feels her tremble, watches her lips move as she repeats the words given. He stares at her lips, not comprehending, refusing to understand what she says. He parrots the same words, a smile plastered to his face. He hears his voice and doesn’t know who is speaking. Cold metal is produced, he slides it along her finger. Such a sexual act, he thinks. He thinks of another girl as they kiss and turns to greet his audience as they are pronounced man and wife.

He doesn’t love her.

Present

She reads of his death in the newspaper. She knows, without looking, he is survived by a wife and three sons.

She reads how he was clutching her picture.

She drops the newspaper, her hands shaking and her heart reeling.

She looks over at the softly snoring figure beside her. She smiles warmly, recovering from shock a little at a time. She snuggles closer to the man beside her, withering and wrinkled hands entwining. She knows she made the right choice.

She sheds a tear for the man who lost her.