The Too-Crowded House

I wrote 'The Too-Crowded House' about two years ago. 

 

The formal writing came after I had illustrated it, and for a long time I had a lot of strange characters saying silly things to each other in my head. The troll made me laugh most of all, and I still get a bit of a giggle when I think about him clutching stinking socks.

 

Mr Spottles remains the archetype for all of my cat characters, and I have popped heart markings on almost all of my animals since as a little tribute to him. 

 

The stars were particularly special to me too; the first picture I ever put on my shop was 'The Grumpy Star' and she is, of course, what inspired me to name my shop Grumpy Star Studio.  

For one reason or another, I never did manage to get it published (and no, I am not at all interested in self-publishing). All the same, it is a story that was very dear to me when I wrote it and I thought it time I shared it somewhere. 

 

The pictures are just four of my favourites from the story, and you can find them on my Etsy and market shops. 

Enjoy x

“The Too-Crowded House” by Mel Macklin

It started as an ordinary morning. The moon, the stars, Mr Spottles and Camille were all sound asleep. Most mornings did start like this. Of course, this particular morning was Camille’s birthday. But for now, her bed was warm and snuggly and the perfect place to dream about the wonderful things she would do to celebrate.

 

 

Mr Spottles would have preferred to continue his catnap. Still, he thought Camille would want to know about the nasty burning smell coming from the kitchen.

Camille and Mr Spottles blinked their eyes. They did not often find witches in their kitchen.

“What are you doing?” asked Camille.

“We’re practicing our baking and potion-making,” said one witch, peering into a bowl she was holding over her head. “Our exams are tomorrow.”

“But it’s my kitchen,” said Camille.

“Never said it wasn’t,” replied another witch as she stirred something in Camille’s best bowl.

“It’s burnt!” cried the smallest witch, pulling a batch of blackened cupcakes from the oven. “I can’t concentrate! I’ll never pass my exams! It’s too crowded in here!”

For several good reasons, Camille thought it was time to leave the kitchen.

 

 

Camille padded to the bathroom to rinse her eyes. She was seeing odd things this morning and must not be well. Healthy people did not see witches in their kitchen. They especially did not see octopuses brushing their teeth in the bathroom sink.

“Go away!” wailed the mermaid in the bathtub. “I have a horrible squishy spot and you’re crowding it!”

Worse than the mermaid’s spot was the smell coming from the laundry. The troll jumped when he sensed Camille standing in the doorway.

“Um,” said the troll, looking very embarrassed.

“Yes?” said Camille, looking quite annoyed.

“I’m washing my socks . . .” said the troll.

“And?” asked Camille.

“It’s feeling very crowded with you standing there wrinkling your nose.”

“Humph!” said Camille as she stomped off, her nose in the air.

There was a glow in the sunroom, not just from the light streaming through the windows, but from the seven sleeping stars curled up in armchairs and snoring softly. They were very beautiful.

Camille stood in the doorway and stared until one of the stars woke up:

“What are you looking at?” she asked in a voice like silver.

“We fell in a star-shower and need to recharge our solar batteries to get back home.”

“Oh” said Camille, still dazzled.

“Now, if you don’t mind,” continued the star with a pretty little frown, “I’d rather you didn’t crowd us so.”

Camille took a deep breath at the top of her garden stairs. None of her other birthdays had been quite this mad. She gave up hoping things might return to normal when she saw a giant snail looking up at her.

“Hullo?” called a tinkly voice, belonging, Camille noticed, to a girl with very large goggles on her head. “Lots of snail stair-racing practice to do before the world final next week. Makes it a bit crowded with you just standing around gawping.”

Camille hurried down the steps into what used to be her garden. Little gnomes here and there were painting and planting red mushrooms. Camille’s garden had become a miniature mushroom city.

Camille realised there was no room left for her anywhere.

“It’s too crowded here!”

Everything was very quiet. Tears trickled down Camille’s cheeks in the evening sunshine. She wished her birthday had been as wonderful as she had dreamed only that morning. At the very least, she wished she had someone to share a bit of cake with. But everyone had forgotten it was Camille’s birthday.

“It’s lonely here,” she sniffled very softly, so only Mr Spottles could hear.

“SURPRISE!” cried the stars.

“SURPRISE!” cheered the gnomes.

“SURPRISE!” laughed the witches.

“SURPRISE!” smiled the troll.

“SURPRISE!” burbled the octopus.

“SURPRISE!” tootled the snail.

“SURPRISE!” tinkled his rider.

“SURPRISE!” neighed the unicorn.

“SURPRISE!” giggled the mermaid.

“Surprise Camille,” purred Mr Spottles.

“I thought for a while you might have guessed what was going on. The problem was that I’d invited so many people and I’m afraid our little house did get a bit crowded!”

Under the moon and the stars, her belly full of cake and tea, Camille fell asleep.

And her heart, like her house, was crowded- with love.

 

 

Number 33 for Cloud Park Corner

It occurred to me the other day that I have been thinking about heaven a lot lately. 

Don't worry; I'm not about to go all Natalie Portman and sprout wings and go all cray-cray at Mila Kunis. Nor, sadly, have I transformed into a statuesque blonde with the ability to intimidate loan-sharks a-la 'Angela'. I should also point out I remain staunchly agnostic about religious matters, and I am not questioning my mortality or seeking existential answers any more than usual. But still, there is this recurring fascination with a child-like interpretation of that fluffy place above us. 

My notion of the Hereafter is probably more like a sort of metropolis-come-funfair. I like the idea of angels with less-than angelic behaviours (not unlike Neil Gaiman's character Islington in 'Neverwhere', though perhaps not quite so malicious). Mine would have vices aplenty, and you'd find them doing all sorts of unseemly things, like scoffing whole bratwursts behind the moon, or relieving themselves as their cloud passed over Tom Cruise, or using their friends' halo as a basketball hoop. 

Very probably, Heaven would be a bit like London. It wouldn't just be angels that lived there, but all sorts of other characters too (though of course, I would love to see a Cockney chimney-sweep angel, that would be fabulous). There'd be bridges made out of rainbows, and mice on the moon, and cows mooching about in the Milky Way. Mary Poppins would be up there too, a pleasantly dotty old biddy with no teeth, carrying on about cough-syrup and her diabetes. Everything would be edible too: the clouds would taste of marshmallow, and each colour of the rainbow would taste of something different (the orange would be marmalade, and you'd think the red would taste of strawberry, but, FYI, it's chilli).

I always imagined my character the Cloud Princess lived in Heaven, or somewhere very like it; maybe a few thousand feet below in Cloud Land, or Fluffy Town, or Fairyflosstopolis. I had a lot of fun creating her character and, though I am long sold out of the small edition of 20 prints I made of her two years ago, I am still asked about her all the time. And so, I thought it was high-time to revist her.

As some of you might know if you follow my adventures on Facebook and Instagram, I am a relatively new slave to two Beaglier puppies, Sandro and Lily. At 5 months old they are quite the handful, and of course, I couldn't imagine what life would be like without them, and their sweet droopy faces. I have affectionately named these characters Princess Lily and Sandro Spottydog in honour of them, and I hope that I have conveyed just a little of the love and warmth between these two friends. 

The Cloud Princess, as I imagine her, loves to bake all sorts of cakes, but macarons are her absolute favourite (and not, incidentally, mine too!). She and Sandro have nipped up the shops for a few foodie supplies, and now are waiting for the Starbus to take them back home to Cloud Park Corner. The sun is just about to set, and Princess Lily always cooks her best macarons by the light of the moon!

I learned so many new things creating this piece, and I am particularly pleased with the slightly eighties, acid-wash look of the light on the clouds. All the best characters came out of the eighties for me: Lady Lovelylocks, Rainbow Brite, Strawberry Shortcake, and these were just a few of the inspirations behind Princess Lily's look. As always too- piles and piles of hair. And why not? Heaven hath no need of hairspray!

 

I hope you like this heavenly duo as much as I did making them.

Have a gorgeous day,
Mel x

Miss Krystal's Kitty Whiskers

Until very recently, I was a dyed-in-the-wool crazy cat lady.

It's not my fault; as I say, my Mum is cat-mad, and her mother before her. Probably the women in my family have been mad feline fussers for centuries now. Probably we are actually part cat- God knows I shed hair like one, don't much care for being dirty, and have long fingernails the thickness of sheet metal that completely contradict zero interest on my part to look after them at all. As of yet, no whiskers, but I'm sure that will change in another 3 years or so when I hit 30.

I can hardly remember any cat I've ever met that I didn't like. When I was very, very young, my Mum taught me how to approach a new cat: slowly, with hand outstretched, and at their eye-level. Only when they chose to come closer to me, and had been given a few minutes to have a good sniff, explained Mum, should I pat them. As I grew older I learned that there are a few things cats almost universally love: getting scratches on the spot where their spine meets the base of their tail, having their noses rubbed, and a very gentle tug on their tails as they slink past.

I love that a cat's respect must be earned. Which is totally fitting, since most of the time mine make me feel like a glorified handmaid whose sole purpose in life is to feed them when they're hungry, cuddle them should they be feeling particularly magnanimous, but otherwise, to just sod right off- especially if I've just vacated a pre-warmed seat for them to jump into.

I also love the way cats play with complete abandon. My normally very dignified and often quite pompous bobtail Willow was only twelve months ago an ungainly little ball of legs and tumbles, falling all over herself to chase her rattly ball. Or climbing the clothes-horse like a regular chimp, just because she could.

Cats are the most self-serving, narcissistic creatures we congratulate ourselves for 'domesticating'; just because they don't scratch our eyes out on a daily basis and occasionally plop themselves in our laps for a bit of a purr, doesn't make them any less calculating. I love the sheer audacity of cats: even when they are caught in the act of doing something naughty, they will still look at you like you are a complete halfwit. 'Do you mean to say I shouldn't have my face buried in your dishwater? Perhaps you shouldn't have made it so tasty by flavouring it with spaghetti sauce from the pan. I am merely cancelling out your wastefulness here.'

And not an hour later, when I am in bed and peacefully snoozing, I will feel a little paw on my nose; not unlike someone knocking on a front door. This is Daisy's code for: 'Mummy, be a good human and lift up the blanket so I can take advantage of the bed you have spent time warming for me. You may scratch my belly also, but put some effort in or else I'll just get sick of you and jump off and guilt you for not being properly devoted to me.' And what can I say- I fall for it every single time. 

All said, R-Patz had it almost right: fluffy kitty bellies are like my very own brand of heroin, albeit a more health-conscious choice and a little hairier. So without further ado, here's a fun little tribute to everything I love best about my meowing machines, and the crazy cat-lady that lives inside me.

 

If you've got any stories about the cats in your life, I'd love to hear them!

Have a brilliant day poppets,
Mel x

are there doughnuts in heaven?

Hey-ho grumpy stars and pink galahs!

 

This is a little piece I finished last week, and I'm so glad to share her with you at last. I am really pleased with the way this character turned out; perhaps most of all because I finally feel like she is, on paper, everything I wanted her to be in my head. It sounds silly, but, me being my own harshest critic, it's always important to me to be true to my ideas, and try to solve problems I have getting there with my media. Coloured pencils are so often overlooked, but I really feel with mine that I have the control that I never felt with acrylics, and, given patience to just plug away, most of the time I get the results I'm looking for. It's exciting to look back even 6 months and think: 'Wow! I really have learned a lot!', and to think forward, even just another year, and think of what I might achieve then.

  

I think one of my greatest pleasures as an artist is to watch people's reactions as they walk around my market shop; to see them smile from their insides-out is so wonderful, and to hear them laugh is even better. I know when people laugh that they 'get' it, and I feel lucky and priveliged.
 

In contrast to this, I've also heard my work described as 'naive' (which I find supremely insulting), and/ or whimsical (which isn't too much better). I tend not to invest too much emotionally in conversations with people when they say these things because they've already dismissed my work on a stylistic level (I once had an infuriating conversation with a woman who insisted my work was 'naive, like Holly Hobby' and assured me she'd done a Masters in Visual Arts. I worked very hard resisting the temptation to suggest she ask for her money back). Very simply: I am serious about my pursuit of creating characters with one foot in my imagination, but convincing enough to flit between that and the real world. It doesn't mean I don't make serious art, it just means I want to have fun, to express a sense of humour, and in a way that isn't photo-realistic. The people who smile and laugh know all of that, and it's a relief, quite honestly. For me, it's validation, it's being understood, without having to justify myself or go into boring discourse on what art is, or should be, or silly labels that I feel boxed in by.

 

My little doughnut angel was my way of being a bit of a dork really. A few months back, when I'd kicked my smoking habit and was offsetting my misery slogging it out at the gym; fresh, hot cinnamon doughnuts were the perfect substitute, I felt. I did also joke at one point that heaven wouldn't be properly 'holey' if it weren't liberally stocked with doughnuts, and, in fact, it was my personal opinion that they should fall from the sky like rain, on the hour, every hour, and naturally they'd be calorie-free. As I got to know my little angel though, I got to thinking about all the obvious, existential things too. Mostly, I thought about my Grandma.

 

My grandparents have always been a big part of my life; growing up, school holidays were almost always spent on their farm. My Grandma's heart was big enough to hold everyone in it who'd ever met her; most people who ever made her acquaintance loved her and quickly became part of the family. Christmas-time saw Grandma in her element: cards poured in from all over the world and presents were sent in turn for all of the grand-kids, both biological and adopted. I was the youngest of the grand-kids until the great grand-children came along, and spoiled pretty well rotten. My Grandma had the most amazing gift of making everyone who ever met her feel like the most special person on earth. I looked nothing like my parents, but everyone said I was the spitting image of Grandma. She was always a beauty, even in her vintage years, and I loved poring over old photos of her, with her lovely dark hair and tiny waist. To me, she was the most beautiful woman on earth: inside and out. She was also, incidentally, an amazing cook and artist. 

 

Three years ago, I got a call from my parents to tell me that my beautiful Gran had had a sudden heart-attack. She'd slipped away in the hospital a little while later. Dave and I had only been living in London for a few months and, having only just found jobs, we couldn't afford to make the trip home. I always knew the day would come. Grandma always had one foot out the door after all; for the woman who taught me about fairies, I often wondered as a child if she wasn't a fairy herself. Being so far away, all I could think was: just one more time. One more cuddle. A chance to say goodbye. There were so many questions I still wanted to ask her: about life, about being a grown-up, about my family. . . For a lady that had always been so sharp and proud and funny, it seemed far too soon to say goodbye.

 

So what do you ask your loved ones when they're already gone? What do you ask when no end of questions would ever be enough, no last cuddles would ever scratch the surface of the person you've lost?

 

I realised that there were a million things I would never know the answer to when I lost Grandma. But, in little ways, I keep her alive in my heart. I still remember what it felt like to give her a cuddle. I can still hear her whistling along with the radio; the smell of her purfume; the way she'd peer over her glasses to do a lunchtime crossword, and scratch at her temple in concentration. The way she'd laugh, and it would fill up a whole room.

 

Sometimes I write letters to Grandma. They're not always written down on paper, but sometimes, just thinking of what she might say helps me make better choices, helps me do what is right, and helps me listen better to what's in my heart.

Dear Grandma,

I hope you are enjoying nice weather up there, and that you spend time with people you love.

We miss you down here.

Do you have a nice big pantry up there? Do you think you could make a roast next Sunday and send me a little container of leftovers? How many stamps do you think you might need for that?

And Grandma, I was wondering- do they have doughuts in heaven?

Please remember me to Poppa and my kitten Monty. I love you always x o x o x

 

Mel x

frida

Well, hello possums! I hope your weekend is a veritable orgy of fun frocks and frivolity, or, at the very least, a welcome reprieve from the warfare of work and other necessary mundanities.

I have been a busy little bee this month past. Perhaps you might have caught a few of my W.I.Ps on Facebook; though I sometimes feel like using it  is synonymous with selling my soul to the devil, it seems this is where I am getting the most feedback for my work these days! Still, my stats do tell me there are a dedicated few of you who still read the blog, and this is a good thing, because probably I would go mad if I couldn't write. Facebook is brilliant when used responsibly, but as I've said before, I feel too often that Facebookers can forget about the real feelings attached to the real people on the other side of a comment. It leaves me a bit glum sometimes.

I am not a bit sad, however, to share my latest addition to the Etsy shop, 'Frida'. She is probably the lady that needs no long-winded introduction, and I can't lie- I  don't actually know all the nitty-gritty about her anyways. Like most people, I find some of her work hard to look at. If I'm being honest (and before you storm my house with pitchforks, do remember this is just my opinion!) I don't think all of it was strictly good painting, and perhaps more accurately, it doesn't really suit my aesthetic sensibilities. All the same, there's no denying Frida Kahlo's work was utterly compelling.

 

I'm not sure how many of us can really identify with the sheer volume of her many personal struggles. The streetcar accident and the crippling physical pain that haunted her long after, eventually causing gangrene and the amputation of her foot; the continued heartache of her miscarriages; even the tumultuous relationship with Diego Rivera- any one of these things can and do break a person.

In my teaching days, I would mention Frida Kahlo to my students, who would continue to look at me blankly until I showed them a picture of her. They knew then, exactly who I was talking about ('the chick that looked like a dude' I believe one of my more astute charges described her). I think I am drawn to Frida Kahlo because her pain is written in her face, and there is such a strength in the hard set of her jaw, a fierce sense of self and unflinching honesty that transcends the monobrow and the mo and is, quite simply, beautiful.

There is a very famous photograph or two of Frida in some sort of alleyway, cuddling a deer, and this is how I think of her: both wild and barely contained, fragile and stronger than perhaps she could have known, and beautiful in her refusal to corset herself in the times and expectations of her sex.

What do you think?

Mel x

astrid

Hello, hello, and happy Tuesday grumpy stars and pink galahs!

I have had a beautiful week with my latest Wallflower, 'Astrid'. I love the sound of this name; the soft hiss of the 'As', and the muted thud of the 'id'. I have a bit of a love-affair with the way certain names sound, I must confess; like a Robert Frost poem, there's something about the way that names are said that brings them to life and gives them three dimensions.

 

'S' sounds in particular give me little goosebumps. Just for a bit of fun, have a read of this poem. Then read it out loud (for best effect, try to maintain the iambic rhythm if you can!).

Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

-Robert Frost, 1923

 

I think this is my favourite poem mostly because I feel like I've been somewhere else when I read it. It haunts me in a beautiful sort of way; long after I've finished reading I imagine echoes of snow falling and feel a sense of, I suppose, delicious loneliness. The little snowflakes around Astrid are a sort of tribute to this aural beauty, and in contrast to the daisies in her hair- because, this is a joyous and happy picture after all!

 

And, quite fittingly, her name means 'fair, beautiful goddess'- suits her very nicely, don't you think?

 

Speaking of all things divine, 'The Goddesses of Small Things' opens this Friday night at 6pm, DVAA, Woods Street, Darwin. This little flyer was designed by my fabulous and very clever friend Marita Albers, and you can come grab yourself one from my Mindil or Parap Market shops, or from Jacksons Art Supplies. This little gem of a show is all about miniatures: beautiful little things for you to love, and small enough to make your wallet smile too! Really looking forward to seeing you there.

 

Have a brilliant rest-of-the-week!

Mel x

introducing eva

Well, hello hello, dots and poppets!

Romeo raised a interesting, semi-existential question I reckon, in his monologue about roses smelling just as pretty if they were called another name. Vis-à-vis, do you ever meet people, and they tell you their name, and all the while you're thinking: 'That is just not the name that fits you?'.

I suppose I can relate to this, since the various stages of my growing up were clearly delineated by the names that people have called me. My parents named me Melissa, because they didn't want anyone to shorten my name. Quite predictably, they were the first to shorten it to either Liss or Lissa, and the rest of my family followed suit. As a teenager, my friends called me just Mel, which I have kept as an adult. I like that it's short and sweet and a bit informal; it feels like my idea of me.

Now don't get me wrong, Melissa is a very pretty name, and I wouldn't say it doesn't suit me, but at best I feel it's probably a bit too elegant and grown-up for the way I see myself most of the time. It is historically also a clear indication that I am in deep shit with the parents, should I be called or referred to by my full name. And, for this reason, I have always felt somewhat squirmy and uncomfortable in the past when employers call me Melissa (worse, is when I have tried to introduce myself into a workplace as Mel, and people think they're being polite by calling me Melanie). 

Because of all of this, I see the names of my characters as the final flourish to my work. Sometimes I have to sit on a piece for a few days until I strike upon the name that they are meant to fit, the one that is quintessentially them. Sometimes I ask Dave for his thoughts. In fact, when he asked me what I planned on calling this particular character, and we both said the same name, we knew it was absolutely right for her.

And so, without further ado, I'd love to introduce you to the second character of my 'Wallflowers' series, 'Eva' (as in 'AY-vah', not 'EE-vah').

Eva is of course the Latinate variant of the English 'Eve', and inseparable from the idea of life. I have been working towards creating characters that are a little older, and perhaps a little more in touch with their sexuality, which is perfect for a character that is so vital and sure of herself, and, let's face it- a little bit booby!

 

 

I think hair also says a lot about female sexuality, and like all of my characters, Eva has piles of the stuff. Renoir knew the power of the plait: it is both a revealing of a girl's femininity and a binding of it; a bit of a tease, really. Look at his bathers: charming lady-bits and very sweet, unaffected mannerisms. Yes, they're almost totally naked, but somehow sexier, and unavailable because of their elaborate hairstyles: they're still retaining some mystery to unlock. It works just as well in real-life: the most attractive people are almost always largely unaware of how lovely they really are.



Have you got any stories to share about people and the names they have or should have? I'd love to hear your thoughts!

 

Have a beautiful weekend,

Mel x