Ripley Trent and the Haunted Shed

Abstract: Intimate partner violence (IPV) is a widespread problem with most prevalent symptoms of PTSD, posttraumatic nightmares (PTNMs).

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Art education began in kindergarten when the teacher gave me a lump of clay. Your bio is a short version of your artist resume written in the third person. It should be factual.

It should be a pretty short paragrah or two. The creativity part is usually in the Artist Statement. There are MANY articles on the subject on the net.

History on a Wrist: 'Charmed Bracelets' : NPR

Good luck. It makes it easy if you think about just talking to someone about your designing.

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Once written, set it aside and come back and think like an English teacher and make it sound great. Watch spelling and grammar. Makes a difference, in my opinion, and adds to your professional appearance. People that purchase handcrafted jewelry oftentimes love the idea of being able to know the person and story behind their purchase so think of that — what would you tell them about yourself if you were sitting there selling it yourself? This also serves as an alert to soneone who might have an allergy. Much success at the shop!

Here is mine:. Drake Collins is a jewelry artist living and working in Metro Detroit, Michigan. He has been showing his work throughout Northeastern Ohio for the last 3 years, and southeastern Michigan for the last year. He has been teaching silversmithing and chainmaille for the last 8 years. He enjoys the mechanical regularity of chainmaille, but has recently been incorporating more organic forms into his work. He draws inspiration from ancient and pagan art, particularly the Jewelry of Classical Rome.

Writing an Artist Biography

He is fascinated by the beautiful pieces of jewelry created by people with no access to the technology we have today. Please log in again. The login page will open in a new tab.


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I was powerless then though not so now to like or dislike this story; it was beyond me then though not so now to understand the span of my lifetime then, two years old, and it was beyond me then though not so now , the span of time called almost one hundred years old;. I did not know then though I do now that there was such a thing as an inside to anybody, and that this inside would have a color, and that if the insides were the same shade of yellow as the yellow of boiled cornmeal my mother would want me to know about it.

On a day when it was not raining that would have been unusual, that would have been out of the ordinary, ruining the fixed form of the day , my mother walked to one of the Harneys stores there were many Harneys who owned stores, and they sold the same things, but I did not know then and I do not know now if they were all of the same people and bought one-and-a-half yards of this yellow cotton poplin to make a dress for me, a dress I would wear to have my picture taken on the day I turned two years old.

Inside, the store was cool and dark, and this was a good thing because outside was hot and overly bright. Her cry of surprise did not pierce the air, but she looked at me hard, as if she knew me very, very well; and later, much later, when I was about twelve years old or so and she was always in and out of the crazy house, I would pass her on the street and throw stones at her, and she would turn and look at me hard, but she did not know who I was, she did not know who anyone was at all, not at all.

Miss Verna showed my mother five flat thick bolts of cloth, white, blue sea , blue sky , yellow and pink, and my mother chose the yellow after holding it up against the rich copper color that my hair was then it is not so now ; she paid for it with a one-pound note that had an engraving of the king George Fifth on it an ugly man with a cruel, sharp, bony nose, not the kind, soft, fleshy noses I was then used to , and she received change that included crowns, shillings, florins and farthings.

My mother, carrying me and the just-bought piece of yellow poplin wrapped in coarse brown paper in her arms, walked out of Mr. My mother not only took me with her everywhere she went, she carried me, sometimes in her arms, sometimes on her back; for this errand she carried me in her arms; she did not complain, she never complained but later she refused to do it anymore and never gave an explanation, at least not one that I can remember now ; as usual, she spoke to me and sang to me in French patois but I did not understand French patois then and I do not now and so I can never know what exactly she said to me then.

And that night after we had eaten our supper boiled fish in a butter-and-lemon-juice sauce and her husband who was not my father but I did not know that at the time, I know that now had gone for a walk to the jetty , she removed her yellow poplin from its brown wrapper and folded and made creases in it and with scissors made holes for the arms and neck and slashes for an opening in the back and the shoulders ; she then placed it along with some ordinary thread yellow , the thread for embroidering, the scissors and a needle in a basket that she had brought with her from her home in Dominica when she first left it at sixteen years of age.

I do not know now and I did not know then. And who was that girl really?


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I did not ask then because I could not ask then but I ask now. And who made her dress? And this girl would have had a mother; did the mother then have some friends, other women, did they sit together under a tree or sit somewhere else and compare strengths of potions used to throw away a child, or weigh the satisfactions to be had from the chaos of revenge or the smooth order of forgiveness; and this girl with skin of cream on its way to spoiling and hair the color of flax, what did her insides look like, what did she eat?

I did not ask then because I could not ask then and I ask now but no one can answer me, really answer me. I do not now know and could not have known then if the pain I experienced resembled in any way the pain my mother experienced while giving birth to me or even if my mother, in having my ears bored in that way, at that time, meant to express hostility or aggression toward me but without meaning to and without knowing that it was possible to mean to.

For days afterward my earlobes were swollen and covered with a golden crust which might have glistened in the harsh sunlight, but I can only imagine that now , and the pain of my earlobes must have filled up all that made up my entire being then and the pain of my earlobes must have been unbearable, because it was then that was the first time that I separated myself from myself, and I became two people two small children then. I was two years old , one having the experience, the other observing the one having the experience. And the observer, perhaps because it was an act of my own will strong then, but stronger now , my first and only real act of self-invention, is the one of the two I most rely on, the one of the two whose voice I believe to be the true voice; and of course it is the observer who cannot be relied on as the final truth to be believed, for the observer has woven between myself and the person who is having an experience a protective membrane, which allows me to see but only feel as much as I can handle at any given moment.

And so…. That afternoon, I was bathed and powdered, and the dress of yellow poplin, completed, its seams all stitched together with a certainty found only in the natural world I now realize , was placed over my head, and it is quite possible that this entire act had about it the feeling of being draped in a shroud.

Writing an Artist Biography – Jewelry Making Journal

My mother, carrying me in her arms as usual , took me to the studio of a photographer, a man named Mr. Walker, to have my picture taken.


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And Mr. Walker lived on Church Street in a house that was mysterious to me then, not now because it had a veranda unlike my own house and it had many rooms unlike my own house, but really Mr. He spoke to my mother, I did not understand what they said, they did not share the same tongue. I knew Mr.