I started painting tiny monsters last week. Tiny’s always fascinated me. Almost ten years ago (TEN years?!?!?), on a whole different blog, I wrote this:
Snow globes, the ones with fabulous Russian fairy tales scenes, and other people’s photographs of other people, and little music box mechanisms. I like them very much. And Colleen Moore’s miniature castle.
Model trains that run through tiny towns and under tiny bridges. Joseph Cornell’s shadow boxes. And fat snowfall through old fashioned streetlamp light.
I stuttered, anxious about confessing it for the first time. I knew too many who would undoubtedly think it twee. Twee is that British sneer, meaning excessively or affectedly quaint, pretty, or sentimental. I wasn’t afraid of much. Except, apparently, how I was perceived. It’s a sneaky, snakey fear. It’s insidious. It doesn’t even feel like fear as much as it feels like the price of adulthood.
Five years ago, forgetting it was covered, I wrote this:
Forever and ever, or as long as I can remember, I’ve been fascinated with small scenes in tiny containers, enchanted by jewel box theaters.
There was some improvement, but not a lot. Five years from now, I’d like to search through this blog and find that I said it, without apology.
I. Like. Small. I like tiny. Not to the exclusion of all else and not even more than other sizes. I’m not a Lilliputiaphile. I just like it. A lot.