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The Homecoming or, All the World’s a Stage…

Posted on January 23, 2016 by smallhousepress

Sketch of the Davis Miniature Theater-to-be

It’s late. Two dog-tired travelers are trailing roller bags. It takes a beat or two to register–their motel parking space is empty. The car is gone.

That was us on October 30, 1995, just off the plane from Italy. The title quote–Sean O’Casey’s version–ends with, “and most of us are unprepared.” Sure enough, during our month of eating, walking and Eurailing around Italy, someone had availed themselves of that cute little ‘85 Honda hatchback parked at the back of the lot, a consequence we were unprepared for. The world whirled on, and no kind of magic would bring the car back. On the drive home the next day in the rental car, we repeated the family mantra—“It’s just another adventure.”

Despite being out of wheels, we had had a great adventure (beginning with locking ourselves out of that very same motel (not once, but twice) the morning we left for the airport). Our minds were full of the trip, miniature theater ideas, and the reality of other mini-projects awaiting our attentions. There was hardly time to notice that in our absence the Grateful Dead had announced their break up, or that Ebay was the newest quirk on the Internet.

Sketch of the Davis Miniature Theater-to-be

Once home, we hit the floor running. I’ve forgotten when, exactly, we began the Theater, but over the next 5 years we juggled teaching projects and travels with its construction. With the Italian toy theaters still fresh in mind, Noel sketched a design for the client, but then we were on to class preparation. More than a year later a floor plan evolved. Even later the base was constructed, flooring laid, and walls were cut so that bricking could begin. And there were the floating unknowns of how to make the elaborate proscenium, and what kind of scenery we’d build.

Rear view, with stage door at lower right, and cut-out for the dressing/make-up room

My favorite part was the make-up/dressing area, the one backstage room we finished, with a cutaway wall for close viewing.

Dressing/make-up Room, Davis Theater. Just by luck, and to add to the realism, some of the bulbs in the mirror light were out even before we installed them.

View showing finished exterior and cutaway wall. The orange door to the right is the open door to the small bathroom.

To me this room is the hub of the theater–the transition space where actors change themselves from daily life to the character on stage. The feeling of the room we made, if not the design, was a direct steal from the one-time Skidmore College Little Theater, where I spent the better part of my Junior and Senior years, so many lifetimes ago.

DR floor

Taping off the floor for concrete

Laying out the floor

Spreading the Bondex patching cement floor with a wide putty knife

The other finished room under the stage is the bathroom, which we squeezed in to the right of the make up room and under the stage door stairs. It can only be viewed from the far left side, or with a dental mirror, but here are some construction shots

Aging a corner of the lathe-and-plaster bathroom wall

Just the basics…

Mirrored bathroom door, outside view, using an old, de-silvering piece of mirror edged with 1/16″ double bead framing.

So much of theater (and miniatures) is magic, a slight of hand, and so much of that comes from (beyond the playwright, director and actors) what is created backstage in the scene shop, the lighting booth, the costume and property rooms, and of course the Green Room—that other nest between stage life and reality. And miniatures share that kind of theatrical magic. One of my favorite quotes, which applies to both, comes from the sweet, Vaudevillian, long-running musical, The Fantasticks. It is spoken at the end , “It’s all an il-lu-sionnnn…” in a swirl of enchanted dust.

Posted in Miniatures | Tagged arts, dollhouse miniatures, miniature theater | 7 Comments

Madama Butterfly and the Toy Theaters of Siena: The Davis Theater, Pt. 2

Posted on November 27, 2015 by smallhousepress

The illustration is of unknown origin. I have borrowed it from The Museum of Everyday Things website, an adventure not unrelated to toy theaters, and worth exploring. museumofeverydaylife.org

The world of toy theatre is filled with eccentrics … Peter Baldwin, Toy Theaters of the World

With our upcoming miniature theater commission nesting in the back of our minds, we set out for Italy in October 1995. Florence was our destination, our home for a month in a one star hotel room at one end of the Ponte Vecchio–a base station for exploration and further travels on our Eurail passes. In particular, we were looking forward to the side trip to Siena to see the antique toy theater collection, which we hoped would furnish us with some greatly needed inspiration–details and stories about the genre, its designs and traditions, as well as about the collector himself, Dottore (Doctor) G. Anyone who collected such a trove was bound to be a fount of information, and a quirky character. To pave the way, I wrote to the Dottore before our departure. From Florence I phoned a few days ahead to confirm the date of our visit.

Up early for the morning bus, we caught the local to Siena, winding through hill towns famous for their wines and music festivals. At 10:15 precisely, as scheduled, we arrived at San Domenico Square. From there we phoned the Dottore, as arranged, about seeing his toy theaters. He said to take a tassi, and that any cab driver would know the way to his home, Villa L’apertita. Our driver denied knowledge of the place, but drove us far out of town on a road that eventually ended in the countryside at a pile of major road construction. The driver shrugged, and abandoned us at a driveway in front of some garages. We took a chance on a path that indeed lead to the door of the Dottore’s villa—a striking and spacious home in the converted stables of a 12^th-18^th century Tuscan farm. (The house and property can be seen in the book Living in Tuscany, by Leonardo Castulucci).

We knocked. The man who answered looked puzzled, or maybe disappointed that we didn’t look more promising. Or something. I forged ahead in broken Italian about the miniature theaters, our research, etc. He asked if we were there to see the gardens. Before I could answer, we were off on a tour of his espaliered roses, native plantings, views of and from the famed Tuscan hills, along with a people-size small stone amphitheater on the property where he and his friends performed plays, ballets and operas.

Once inside the villa, we discovered the “friends” were luminaries. He was, it seemed, also a collector of famous personages–celebrities whose autographed photos covered every wall and table surface that art and books did not, including the Pope, Fellini, Nureyev, and jockeys of the Palio, Siena’s famed breakneck horse race. For winter entertainments they used the indoor theater built into one room of the house.

Eventually the Dottore led us back to the rooms of toy theaters–a museum’s worth–many commercially produced, some one of a kind, the simple and ornate, a good number made by famous scene designers, and many inscribed to “Nanni,” our host. Some were made from stone or wood, but mostly from paper, with hand-cranked scenic cloth or paper curtains, wobbly scenery, and dollhouse miniatures in varying scales. Every one was different and every one triggered our curiosity. The Dottore spoke animatedly about each piece he rushed us past, underlining the value and rarity of it all, and refusing to slow or answer our questions.

Finally he stopped before a paper theater set for Puccini’s Madama Butterfly. Only the elaborate proscenium faced out, with the theater itself recessed into the wall, behind which our host disappeared. The familiar notes of an old recording of the opera rose, along with the lights and curtain to a performance of the final act. The ship steaming across the back of the stage, the paper doll characters playing the scene were all on strings guided by the Dottore, who sang softly along behind the heartbreaking music until, finally, his voice quavered and broke, as it no doubt did in every performance. The music ended abruptly, the curtain squeaked down. After a few moments, our host reappeared and ushered us back to the enormous living room, where he left us. After some noisy negotiations with the housekeeper, he returned with two juice glasses of wine, and, Noel recalls, a cup of dry roasted peanuts.

The Dottore was then called away for a lengthy phone call. Noel and I sat mostly in stunned silence, sipping our wine and soaking it all in–the house, the collection, the performance, the collector. When he returned he had called a tassi, and, end of play, showed us the door.

***

Before I leave the Dottore, to wade, next time, into our own toy theater, I’ll leave you with this final quote from Peter Baldwin’s book:

I will go so far as to suggest that it is these things—trifling things—that the world stands most in need of, and that the weighty ones are absorbing all our strength…might it not be wiser and more sociable to concern ourselves with trifles for a few decades…I have seen in most lands that I have visited, even miniature theatre held by grown men…to be…of great value.

Edward Gordon Craig 1932

Posted in Memoir, Miniatures, People | Tagged arts, collectors, dollhouse miniatures, lifestyle, toy theaters | 8 Comments

Once Upon a Theater: The Davis Theater, Part 1

Posted on November 14, 2015 by smallhousepress

The Davis Miniature Theater, 1995-2000

The roots of our miniature theater project are so old and intertwined it’s hard to know where to begin, so I’ll start with Once Upon a Time. Once upon a time—some 200 years ago, before the distractions of TV and electronics–children of Western Europe played with toy theaters made from papers printed with elaborate prosceniums, character, and set designs which they cut out, pasted on cardboard, and assembled so they could perform plays on the little stages. Some say it was geared more for boys, but the girls were enticed away from their dollhouses when they saw how much fun it was to stage things like battles and weddings. Needless to say, the adults got hooked, too.

“The world of toy theater is filled with eccentrics…” –Peter Baldwin, Toy Theaters of the World.

One might say the world of miniatures is peopled with a similar cast of characters.

Once upon a time—close to 40 years ago—Mr. Peepers, a miniature shop in Seattle, started selling our dollhouse kits, which began a long relationship with the owners, Babs & Allan. Mr. Peepers is where we taught our first workshop, which is another story altogether.

Once upon a time—maybe 25 years ago–Allan and his wife Nora asked us over dinner one night to build them a mini project of our own choosing. The commission had no strings—just to build whatever we liked, whenever we got around to it. Noel and I looked at them, and at each other, and found that absolutely nothing came to mind. By then we had built almost 50 projects in varying styles, had classes and a commission on the work table, plus other commissions still on the books. In the back of our team mind that whiney little mosquito that didn’t care about paying the rent nagged us to refuse any more big projects.

Once upon a time Allan and Nora discovered we liked theater, and took us to a performance at the Seattle Repertory Theater. On the drive home Noel and I talked about making a miniature theater. But where would we start–a whole theater was a gigantic project. A few miles down the road I said, let’s start with the front two rows of seats and make the fun parts—the stage and backstage where the real magic takes place. And Noel said, forget the seats, let’s start with the proscenium.

Time passed. We hashed it over with friends and relatives. A friend sent us Peter Baldwin’s book, Toy Theaters of the World chronicling the history of toy theaters, a world we knew nothing about. A cousin told us about a collector she’d visited in Italy.

Toy Theaters of the World

Once more upon a time—October of 1995 to be exact–we spent a month in Italy. Included in that trip was finding an antique shop in Florence with a worn red box the size of a small toy chest which contained the pieces to a paper theater. They wanted $200.00. I hesitated–we were hand-to-mouth dollhouse builders traveling on credit. And there was the trivial matter of how to get it home. And where to put it. I still kick my practical mind for leaving that treasure behind. But there was also the day’s visit to Sienna, and the home of one Dottore G., the collector of vintage toy theaters.

“We should treat all trivial things of life very seriously.”–Oscar Wilde

Il Dottore treated toy theaters very seriously.

Posted in Buildings, People | Tagged arts, dollhouse miniatures, miniature theater, toy theaters | 8 Comments

The Breeze, Pt. IV: The Nitty-Gritty of Utility Sinks

Posted on October 10, 2015 by smallhousepress

The Breeze utility sink

Once again it is my aim to come to the aid of metallically challenged miniaturists—those who want the look of metal, without the heartache of soldering gun or anvil. Whether you pine for a period stove, ice cream freezer, Monel-metal counters, or a full-fledged diner, these techniques should give you a jump start. Using our experience equipping “The Breeze,” (our version of a Maine fried clam stand) I’ll describe how Noel and I built a metal utility sink and its aging plumbing with relatively basic tools and supplies. Rather than a step-by-step how-to, these solutions are meant to help you cook up your own pieces. I apologize for the shortage of good photos–over the years, slides, like memory cells, have been lost

For the sink, Noel began by making box and backsplash from 1/8” plywood, glued together with Elmer’s white glue. Custom-built for our project, the box is 1 5/8”dep X 3”wide X 1 ¼”high. The backsplash extends up another ¾”, making the overall height of back wall 2”. The sink rim is cut from 3/32” quarter round basswood (1/16” might work too), and glued to the top edge of the front and sides of the box (the backsplash doesn’t get a rim).

Once the glue dried, Noel rounded the rim’s 45° corners with fine sandpaper. He then sprayed the whole bare-wood sink unit with Rustoleum Bright Metal paint, building coats to fill the rim seams and wood grain, and give it a neutral, metallic background color. Then he burnished the high gloss off the rim with 4/0 steel wool.

The rim and bottom of the box were left painted only, the rest to be covered in metal sheeting. For this Noel used aluminum printing plates, which may no longer be available (see previous posts on appliances for more information). Substitute sheet lead, wine bottle lead, or very thin aluminum sheeting, if you can find it, and wing it from there.

First, Noel covered the outside of the box with a single metal strip, cut flush to the top and bottom of the box and long enough to wrap around the sides making a seam at the center back. To insure a good fit, make a paper pattern first. Before gluing the aluminum to the box, rub it (shiny side up) with 4/0 steel wool, in tiny circles (to avoid evidence of the “Giant Hand”), giving it the look of brushed stainless steel.

steel-wooling the metal sink stock

Then, coat the back of the metal with a thin layer of Elmer’s white glue and fold it around box. Wrapping the whole with masking tape swill snug it in place until dry.

The sheeting to be applied to the back wall of the sink

Using the same methods, Noel cut the next metal piece for the back wall of the sink—a piece that wraps from the inside bottom, up over the backsplash and down the back to meet the first piece (all seams are in the back, where they won’t show once the sink is glued in place). This piece is cut wide enough to make angled flaps to wrap around each end of the backsplash. After steel-wooling this piece, he glued and taped it in place. The rest of the sink insides are similarly covered.

We didn’t cover the exterior sink bottom, as it would never be seen (unless you were obsessively inquisitive with a dental mirror and flashlight). To make drain holes in the sink bottom, we drilled three 1/8” holes (for a triple sink) through the metal and box bottom with the drill press. A pin vise would make similar holes. For drains, Noel inserted 1/8” brass grommets in the holes, aging them first with Brass Black (brass aging solution, available through gunsmiths or Whittemore-Durgin). To divide the sink in three sections, Noel cut two partitions from 1/16” basswood, wrapped them in metal, and glued them equidistant inside the sink. Again, the rim is left uncovered, with just the metallic paint showing. You’ll find it achieves a convincingly aged, mottled look when you rub it with steel wool.

Inserting the sink legs

For the sink legs, which were inserted into the 1/8” holes near the four corners of the sink bottoms, Noel cut 3/16” diameter wood dowels, 1 7/8” long (1/8” longer than the actual legs). He whittled and sanded, rounding the top 1/8” of each leg to form pegs that were inserted into the holes. He did the same shaping on the bottom 3/16” to give the illusion of level-adjusting feet (yes, one more fanatical detail on something that could barely be seen).

Noel layered Bright Metal spray paint on the legs to disguise the wood grain, steel-wooled them smooth, and painted the bottoms with a band of black paint to simulate rubber tips. Once the leg tops were glued in place, he banded them with a 5/32”wide strip of chrome automotive tape (auto supply stores), adding a dimensional, textural detail that distracts from the wood grain.

The heavy-duty plumbing underneath is built from the junk box–your junk box may turn up some better gems than ours. For the three vertical drain pipes (connecting the drains to the transverse pipe that carries all the water down the pipe in the floor) Noel used 1/8” round plastic framing sections (or “trees”) left over from a Chrsynbon bathroom kit. The drain pipe furthest to the right, connecting to the long transverse pipe, is all one piece.

Utilizing one of the curves in the plastic “tree,” he cut the vertical pipe 5/8” above the curve, then cut the other end long enough to reach the far end of the sink and curve down into the floor (it helps to cut a piece of wire for a pattern). Noel then bent the far end of the transverse pipe down, in the direction of the floor. For this step he wrapped the plastic with masking tape where he wanted to start the curve, heated it briefly with an adjustable-wick oil-burning candle (who knows where you’ll find one of those now, maybe a thrift shop) at the lowest setting, and bent it by hand. If this scares you, practice on a sample piece. The middle vertical drain pipe was cut a little longer than the first, to give the transverse pipe a slight, downhill slope; the third section was cut slightly longer than that.

To mark where the pipes connected, he set the long, curved pipe section in place in its drain hole, and marked it with a felt tip pen where the two other pipes will join it. Using a hobby knife, he carved a concave shape in one end of each of the two vertical pipes, so they fit smoothly over the curve of the transverse pipe. He set them in their drain holes and glued them to the long pipe (but not yet into the drain holes) with plastic cement or Super Glue gel. At this stage he had a single unit of all the drain pipes, minus detail.

For the illusion of plumbing elbows and joints, Noel wrapped the pipes with 1/16”w strips of masking tape. He laid a 3 “strip of masking tape on a piece of glass, and cut 1/16” wide strips using a metal straight edge and hobby knife with a fresh blade. (As with underwear, blades should changed daily, at least).

Check out your own home or favorite cafe’s plumbing to get an eye for detail and spacing. At the first pipe bend, Noel wrapped a tape strip around the pipe several times to achieve a thickness convincing enough to be a joint. He repeated this procedure at the lower end of the curve, then went on to make T connectors where the other pipes joined, plus one more connection below the lower bend of the joint leading down to the floor (see photo).

After the wrapping was completed, he coated each connection with a little white glue to seal the tape on the pipe. When the glue was dry, he sprayed the whole plumbing unit with Bright Metal paint. When it was dry he “dust” sprayed over the surface with enough flat black paint to finely speckle and darken the “metal” to an old galvanized look.

For the final transverse pipe detail, Noel spot-painted it with Burnt Sienna acrylic tube paint, using a small brush (#2 watercolor round) to darken it and create an overall look of warmth and a little rust. It’s important not to go overboard here; you want to leave an implied visual impression of plumbing (with room for the viewer’s imagination), not have the pipes or aging draw attention to themselves. Keep it subtle. When done, Noel glued the tops of the three drain pipes in the drains.

Before and after “chroming” the faucet

Lastly, Noel built the double, wall-mount faucet assembly from another conglomeration of parts. He cut off the curved spigots of two ledge-mounted pot-metal faucets with cross handles. He made the cut at the curve, retaining the straight stub ends. To make the pipe connecting the handles, he cut a ¾”long section of 3/32” wide copper tubing (wide enough so the stub ends could be glued snugly inside the tubing). The long-armed swivel spigot was another Chrysynbon left-over: a section of “chromed” bathroom sink drain pipe. The bottom of the Chrysynbon pipe has a small flange which became the joint where the spigot arm mounts on the connector pipe.

Noel cut the spigot long enough to extend over all three sink sections. He bent both ends over the flame (one bend above the flange, where it attached to the connector pipe, another to direct the water down into the sink). He also cut a concave shape into the flange, so it would fit over the connector pipe. To give the illusion of a moveable spigot, he glued it on the connector pipe at an angle, as if to fill the left-hand sink.

For faucet mounts (flanges that connect the piece to the backsplash) Noel used two more grommets (as for the sink drains) into which he inserted the faucet stems. Once the assembly was plastic cemented together, Noel sprayed the unit with Bright Metal paint. He held the unit to the back splash, marking and drilling where each faucet mount would enter it, finally gluing the assembly in place.

As with all our miniature projects, we learned how to build The Breeze as we went. The key is to visualize what you want, then go find the materials and adapt them. In this case the aluminum plate will probably not be available, but if you want it enough, you’ll find a good replacement. Our best sources–outside of miniature shops and art/craft supply stores–were clerks in smaller hardware stores. When we told them we made miniatures, and explained what we wanted to do, they often knew just the item we needed and just the bin it was in. Or they had an idea about where else to look.

***

These last few posts have been of a more technical nature than most because I recorded the details in my miniature magazine columns, and some of you have asked for more explicit instructions on these odder pieces. This project marked my last column. From here on, I’ll be returning to more of the stories of our work, starting with our final major piece, the Davis Theater.

Posted in Appliances, Miniatures | Tagged aging miniatures, Castine ME, miniature appliances, Roadside architecture | 2 Comments

Cooking Up the Breeze: Interior, Pt. 1

Posted on September 12, 2015 by smallhousepress

The Breeze Appliances

In 1996, two years after we began work on miniaturizing The Breeze fried clam stand in Castine, Maine, a friend wrote in a Christmas card that it had sold. When Noel and I began the design, the then current owner invited us in to photograph and measure his new venture. For him it was a retirement business—a possibly fun and profitable way to spend his summers. For us it was architectural history in the making—a piece of the town saga worth its salt. The next summer, when we brought the miniature Breeze back, he liked it all right, and welcomed our students in to poke around and photograph the aging shingles, and jury-rigged interior, but he didn’t quite catch on to our affection for the place. He was too busy breading clams, cleaning fryers, and setting up for a busy summer day.

Aside from the vent fan, the grittiest part of the Breeze is the interior, the working part of the kitchen with its gas grill, metal fryers, stove and sink. Even with 54 miniature structures under our belts, creating the interior of the food stand (cousin to the greasy spoon, defined by Urban Dictionary as serving “food that is often delicious, and always bad for you) was no simple task. We specialized in illusions made of wood and paint–recreating “the look of metal” was a most mind-and-materials-stretching venture. The following directions could be titled: “Metal-Working for Those Who Failed Metal-Working 101.”

What we devised for the interior is perhaps best described as the essence of appliances. These built-in pieces can be viewed only from a distance—through windows and the removable roof access. They are fabricated from bits of wood and aluminum held together with glue. If the items were meant for hand-held inspection, we would have commissioned a real metal-smith–someone of Bill Hudson’s caliber–to make more refined versions of the real thing. The bad news is, the interior photos of the finished project after aging are missing (and, oddly, or scarily, so is our memory of doing the work). The good news is that I wrote about it at the time, and still have the files.

Our aim was to make these stationary pieces in scale, looking well-used, and “feeling” enough like the real thing to be believable. We worked from photographs of the full-size Breeze, backed-up by notes and our own recollections. Our having both worked as short-order cooks gave us another level of practical experience to draw from. It helps to have a feel for the surroundings you want to recreate in miniature; your imagination kicks in when knowledge, measurements, or photos don’t quite cover it.

Fryer box and baskets before aging

For the deep fat fryer, Noel began by building a rudimentary utility table with 1/8″ X 5/16” basswood legs, and with a top and lower shelf made from veneer ply (aka doorskin) covered with aluminum printing plate (described below). The table was designed to hold both the fryer and the hamburger grill and fit along the structure’s back wall. He let the available space determine the size of the table and appliances.

The behind-the-scenes deep fat fryer box can be built from 3/16″ or ¼” thick plywood, either of which is hefty enough to be held together with glue. Build the box—no fancy corners needed—and cover it with aluminum sheeting attached with Elmer’s white glue.

We bought the hand-bendable sheet metal from our local printer. It was called Western Linotech single-sided aluminum printing plate (the same material used for roofing in my Putting a Roof on It posting). Now that computer printing has taken over, you’ll be hard-pressed to find this, but rolled-out wine lead, or lead sheeting (see below for sources) make decent substitutes. (For a different approach, see the entries for The Airplane Cafe, and Fish and Fries).

Once the glue is dry, shape a single piece of printing plate to cover the sides and front (the back will never be seen). To cut the pieces to size, use the tip of an Exacto knife guided by the edge of a metal straight edge to scribe—without cutting through—the aluminum plate. Bend the piece along a sharp table edge and break along the scribed line. Hand bend the cut piece around the box, and glue it on with Elmer’s. The non-working doors in front–where the fryer grease is cleaned out of the real thing–are cut from 1/16” airplane ply (Micro Mark catalog), covered in the same metal, and glued on the front of the box. Whatever material you use, it helps to make a paper pattern first, to determine where to clip the metal corners to make a snug and true fit.

The door handles are made from 19 gauge aluminum wire (hardware store). Noel bent the handles into shape with round, fine needle-nose pliers. He drilled holes in the doors with a pin vise, and glued the wire ends into the holes. The red “brand name” logo plates on the left door he cut from wine bottle “lead,” the kind that seals some corked wines. (These days this material is really a malleable plastic that looks like metal, and may have some metal content, but it looks right). Noel embossed the sign lettering from the back, writing with a defunct fine-tipped roller ball pen (the brand name is HOT!), then colored the front with a red felt pen, and glued it to the door with Elmer’s.

The inside and top lip of the box are lined with strips of thin lead sheeting, because it is easier to mold than aluminum plate. If your miniature store doesn’t have any, try hobby or stained-glass supply stores. Finish the box by adding two wire handles on which to hook the fryer baskets. The handles are simply longer versions of the wire door handles, set into the top edges of either side of the box.

Wire framing and hammered screen mesh used for fryer baskets

The fryer baskets take some practice. Make the framing from two pieces of aluminum wire, the same kind used for the door handles. Referring to the photos and diagrams, cut and fold a paper pattern to determine the basket size: smaller than the fryer box interior, and with room for a comfortable space between the two. Also, the bottom of the basket should be narrower than the top. For ours, Noel shaped the basket around a section of ½” sq. basswood, standing it on end to form the lower corners and the width of the basket bottom.

Fryer diagram

Once you have a suitable paper basket, use another piece of paper to draw an outline of the shape and size of the handle and frame for the rim of the basket. Make it a little larger than the top of the basket pattern because it will be glued to the outside edge of the basket mesh. With the drawing as a guide, use the round needle-nose pliers to shape a single piece of wire into the handle and top-of-the-basket framing (wire #1). Have patience. The process will work, although it may take a few tries to get it right. Glue the wire together at base of the handle and the back of the basket (opposite the handle) with instant glue gel. Repeat the process for the second basket, using the same pattern so the baskets match as closely as possible.

Before shaping the rest of the framing, feel free to pound out your frustrations on the basket mesh. This piece is made from aluminum window screen flattened with a hammer. Lacking any screen scraps, we bought a whole roll at the hardware store for about $9.00. You might be able to buy just a piece at your hardware store, or maybe find an inexpensive window screen at Goodwill.

With wire cutters, cut out a piece of screen about 1 ½” sq. for each basket, and hammer the mesh wires flat on an anvil. With your paper pattern and the wood form, trim the screen and clip the corners to hand-form the basket. To help prevent the screen from unraveling, paint the whole piece with water-thinned Elmer’s. Thin the glue enough to prevent the mesh from filling with glue. Noel used a hairdryer to blow the thinned glue out of the holes.

Once the mesh is dry, mold, fold and crimp the screen around the wood form to create straight edges. The depth of Noel’s basket (where he made the first bend) is five screen squares down from the top edge. The length of the basket is determined by the size of your frame. Work gingerly, and run a bead of Elmer’s along the rim edge of the basket to further reduce the screen’s tendency to unravel. Work to keep the mesh square across the sides and bottom.

The screen must overlap somewhat at the front and back of the basket to have ample gluing surface. Some overlapping works to give the illusion of holes clogged with pieces of breading and clams, but too much will look like—well–too much. An illusion is a suggestion, not a justification for clunky work. Trim away any excess screen and glue the ends with instant glue gel.

Bend a second piece (wire #2 in diagram) to frame the sides and lower part of the basket and form the side draining bracket. Use the basket and top frame (wire #1) as a guide, bending the wire around the wood form with the needle-nose pliers. The trick to making the basket symmetrical is to make the bends in the wire even lengths on either side of the basket. Once wire #2 is bent into shape, glue it and the basket to the top wire frame with instant glue gel. Be patient, and give it your best. Then give it another day before deciding if you need to make a better one.

At last comes the fun part, painting on the grunge that will transform your labors into a credible, almost smell-able, fryer. (For research, I recommend a field trip to the nearest greasy spoon to try some of that oh-so-good-but-bad-for-you food.) Our dirty grease formula consists of Grumbacher tube acrylics in Burnt Sienna, Raw Sienna, and Mars Black. These colors, in varying combinations, are the same colors we use for rust. If you’ve ever really looked at a short order kitchen’s working parts, you’ll see the boundary between grease and rust is pretty iffy. That’s where it becomes grunge.

A different example from The Airplane Cafe, made before we used aluminum plate.

Pour about 2 tablespoons of water on a plastic plate and squeeze a little of each pigment around the plate’s rim. With a watercolor round brush, draw a little of the two siennas into the water, making a drippy wash (more water than pigment). When you have a good thin grunge color, paint it on the fryer basket mesh and down the sides of the fryer box. There should be more grease at the top of the box, with drips down the sides.

Play with the strength of the washes and color combinations. Start with a really thin wash, allowing each layer to dry, adding until you get a color you like. Finally use a bit of a very thin black wash to tone down the reddish color where needed. As the paint dries on the metal box, the pigment will separate out into visible, but not dimensional, little globs of color. The paint will heighten the already slightly “chunky” look in some of your basket mesh. If you can find a Cadmium Orange felt-tip marker (at better art supply stores), smear a little ink over the paint to slightly enhance the overall color and add a convincingly greasy sheen. As always, go gently, don’t tell the whole story–leave room for the viewer’s mind to fill in the details.

The full-size version of The Breeze, or some earlier incarnation of it, has been a part of Castine from before the first time I saw it as a child. Locals say it was originally a trailer, towed home to the driveway at the end of each summer. For a while it was called The Salty Breeze. During the 28 years Noel and I visited there it had at least five different proprietors, one of whom was a woman who was also in charge of cleaning the town restrooms at the other side of the pier parking lot—she added the touch of a vase of fresh flowers every day, at least in the Women’s. Due to the number of ownership transitions, I suspect The Breeze at first appears as a dream of a slower-paced life, of taking things easy, of frying a few clams to salt away some extra cash. As is all too usual, full-scale reality is grittier than the dream.

Living the dream–the full-size Breeze in 2011, with no awning.

Posted in Appliances, Miniatures | Tagged Castine ME, dollhouse miniatures, kitchens, Roadside architecture | 4 Comments

The Breeze, Pt. II: The Question of Awnings

Posted on August 29, 2015 by smallhousepress

The Breeze miniature awning

In Sunday’s funnies, a man encircled by boisterous children confesses to his wife, “I thought I knew all the answers, but they keep thinking up new questions,” which reminded me of one of our workshop students. “Why doesn’t my work look like yours?” was, I think, how she phrased it—a student comparing her work to Noel’s and mine at the end of the first day. Wow! Now there was a huge question, and I am not a speedy thinker. The woman was relatively new to miniatures, but a good craftsperson with high standards. I think she felt a little cheated. Pointing out that Noel and I had about 50 years more combined experience didn’t do the trick, so I batted the question around for a while. Days later another part of the answer filtered through: the student had come to the right class, because we were teaching something she didn’t already know, and isn’t that the point of learning? It was days more before I uncovered the next pieces of the puzzle.

For the Breeze clam stand project, one big question was how to build a miniature awning. The green canvas awning was one of the Breeze’s most distinctive elements, and something new for us. What’s great about an awning, especially in this day of prefab, plastic-arched eateries, is that it not only adds color and texture to a structure, but it also deepens an intangible and dated comfort factor—that feeling of refuge that comes from fabric overhead, as with tents and beach umbrellas. It reminded me of the cocooning effect of the awnings that once shaded the south-facing windows of my grandmother’s house. The awning question, being one of fabric— my domain—fell to me. This answer too, came in pieces.

Because Noel and I worked as artistic partners, when one of us took on a particular problem it never entirely left the other’s mind. While I grappled with fabric possibilities, Noel asked about the metal framing—two people approaching the same problem from different angles. I felt that once the fabric question was solved, the frame would follow—my reading of form following function. The fabric question was trickier than I thought, and the beginning of the solution came out of Noel’s stash of “saved” items. While in my mind I painted and sized muslin (my all-time fallback treatment, left over from college theater days), Noel nudged me toward his pile of faded green window shades, the kind backed with yellowing muslin-like fabric that he’d salvaged from garage sales and The Salvation Army. (To digress a moment, I Googled old-fashioned window shades to see what they were made of, and, yep, it was called window shade cloth, sometimes Nonpareil shade cloth, but there’s a dearth of information on the subject, not even a Wikipedia entry, so, for those of you aspiring to make a name for yourselves on the Net, here’s your chance).

At first the shades didn’t grab me–the material was too stiff to drape gracefully, and a lot of it was pretty ratty and moldy. Noel reasoned that we wouldn’t have time in class to color muslin, and the shades were already green, and aged. He was right–the new problem became how to soften and shape the shade fabric, until I remembered a theater trick about muslin and sizing.

Once I bought into using the shades, I went on to figuring out the framework. Because of class time limitations, basswood promised to be more practical than metal. It was lighter, would be barely visible under the fabric, and we could paint it to create an illusion of metal. Plus, we knew little about working with metals, and I could envision a whole week’s workshop lost to soldering and fabricating awning frames.

For the main framework I went with basswood stock we had on hand–two strips of 1/16” X 3/16” (for the top horizontals and vertical braces), 1 strip of 3/32” X 3/32” (bottom back and front horizontals), and one strip of 3/32” quarter round added to the front bottom horizontal—providing extra rigidity and a rounded “drop line” for the fabric. For the 60/30 degree triangular end brackets, I cut six strips to length from 3/32” X 3/32” stock, angling the ends to match the slant of the roof. Before gluing them together, I aged the strips with Bug Juice to tone down the newness of the wood. Once the Juice was dry, I cut and assembled the frame, using a paper pattern I had made to fit the building, and glued it together (liberally) with our old standby, Elmer’s white glue.

If you’re going to try this yourself, before cutting wood, make a paper or cardboard model, adjusting until you find good proportions and correct angles; before gluing, cover your work area with wax paper to avoid gluing the frame to the table; build the end brackets first, squaring the back of each bracket with a squaring jig, or small engineer’s square (I particularly like the handy, 3” steel machinist’s square available through Micro Mark); once the brackets are dry, re-touch the joints with glue, and allow to dry thoroughly before assembling the rest of the frame. Build the main frame between the brackets. Once assembled, trim and sand the leading edge of the brackets flush with the lower, rounded horizontal framing, then paint gray (or with aluminum craft paint) to create the illusion of a metal frame.

When the frame is dry, you can cut the front fabric covering to fit. Starting with the off–the-roll stiff shade fabric, I cut it into 3 ½” wide strips, across the width of the shade. This width covered the framework, and then some, and the drop allowed for a scalloped edge, as in the original. Once you have cut your strips, set them aside.

Awning scallop patern

Trace the scalloped edge (see diagram, or design your own) onto plain white paper. I did it diagonally on the paper, to get the longest possible strip. Then, carefully cut around the curves to make a smooth, evenly-waved line. With a T-Square and Exacto knife, trim off the excess paper to make a scalloped strip approx. 7/16” deep. Next, lay the frame on the back of the awning fabric strip, and mark the fabric at 3/8” wider (longer, not deeper) than the frame. Using the T-square and Exacto, trim the fabric at that mark at a 90 degree angle to the top or bottom edge of the strip. Now place the frame back on the fabric, and draw a “drop line,” indicating the bottom horizontal edge of the frame. This is where the top (the straight edge) of your scalloped paper strip will go. Using transparent Removable Magic Tape, tape the scalloped paper strip to the lower edge of the back of the fabric, along the line, and cut out the scallops. Again, keep your curves smooth. When done, remove the paper, and save the excess scalloped edge for end pieces.

Before gluing fabric to frame, paint a narrow “white” border along the lower edge of the scallops. Yes, paint. A fabric or thread border will look too bulky, and break the illusion of reality. In this case it is better to simulate cording, rather than try to replicate it in miniature. For The Breeze, we mixed an old-ivory colored paint, using flat white latex warmed with a little ochre tube acrylic. Stark white looked cold and unconvincing. The ochre adds a credible look of age to match the weathering of the window shade fabric.

Now, here’s the trick to softening the shade fabric: once the border is dry, lay the fabric face-down on the worktable. Then, using a foam brush and water, dampen, don’t soak, the back of the fabric only, leaving it wet for a few minutes until it becomes soft and pliable. Keep water off the green side, or it will disintegrate. Dab the backing with paper towels if it seems too wet. Next, to keep it from curling, flatten the fabric on a table with weights for a few minutes (still wet) before gluing.

Once the fabric becomes pliable and will lie flat, fold the scalloped edge over a T-Square to finger press a crease along the “drop line” you drew earlier. This is where the fabric will fold over the lower part of the frame. Then, run a smooth, solid bead of glue (Elmer’s white) along all the facing surfaces of the frame (not the fabric), smearing the glue with your fingers so no excess will leak out around the edges, then lay the fabric on the frame, beginning at the top edge. Gently press the fabric with your fingers to ease in a few soft puckers (not ridges) and sags, smoothing it down along the rest of the frame, and tugging slightly from the bottom to give the puckers a vertical direction.

Draping on the full-sized Breeze

Finger-press out any hard lines or pleats. Don’t try to work all of the excess fabric into the puckers, or the awning will look baggy and badly made. The slow drying time of the Elmer’s allows plenty of time to work the fabric onto the frame. Allow the excess to overhang one end until the glue dries, then trim to fit the edge of the frame.

With the fabric glued in place, turn over the whole frame—so the fabric is lying flat, face-down on the table—and weigh down the frame for drying. Hold down all edges, weighting it down with everything you’ve got: miter boxes, squaring jigs, stones, snack-sized Ziplocks filled with sand, etc. Use a hairdryer to speed drying, then, while the glue is still slightly tacky, lift off the weights and turn over the whole thing to see that everything’s glued where it should be. Adjust if necessary, turn the awning back over, and weigh it down until dry, preferably overnight.

Awning end detail

Awning end pieces: Using your scalloped paper strips, make a pattern piece to fit the end bracket by first tracing a length of scallops onto another piece of plain white paper. Then line up the scallops with those at the corners of the awning, so you have an unbroken scalloped pattern from front to sides. Standing the awning on end, and using the end bracket for a pattern, trace and cut a sample triangular end-piece 1/8” larger than the frame bracket (to allow for draping) from the paper. Hold it in place on the awning frame and trace a “drop line” along the base of the triangle, lining up the length of the scallops with the front. Adjust as necessary, making certain you have a good, close fit at all the seams, and have allowed a little room for easing, especially at the corners. Once you have a paper pattern that fits, write “green” on the side of the paper that represents the green side of the fabric, trace the pattern onto the fabric (making sure the green side matches that on the paper, and that the fabric fibers run vertical to the base of the triangle). Cut out the fabric end-piece, and paint on the scalloped edge. Dampen the back of the piece to soften as before, and glue in place. Repeat for the other end of the frame. You can further customize your awning with such details as additional bracing, and tie-downs made from fishing line or old kite string.

As for answers to that student’s question—“Why doesn’t my work look like yours?,” more came to me, as it often does, in bed, late at night. For the student, I remembered what Robert M. Pirsig said about creativity in Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance: “You want to paint a perfect painting? It’s easy. Just make yourself perfect, then paint naturally.” For the teachers, there’s an old hieroglyph: “No limit may be set to art, neither is there any craftsman who is fully master of his craft.” And for all of us, from a friend, poet, and teacher, “There are no answers, only choices.”

Guild School Breeze class photo 1996, or 97.

Guild School Breeze class photo 1996 (I think)..

Posted in Miniatures, Teaching | Tagged aging miniatures, architecture, dollhouse miniatures, miniature awnings, roadside stands | 3 Comments

The Breeze and I—Putting a Roof on It

Posted on August 1, 2015 by smallhousepress

The Breeze, 1997

I was born under a lucky star. Not only did I grow up in a picturesque New England town, but for part of many summers my family explored coastal towns from Mass. to Maine by boat. I have in memory a cache of what I think of as my “summer towns,” those dreamy Brigadoons that can be called upon to flower in my mind even in the depths of winter cold.

One of my summer towns is Castine, Maine, where for twenty-nine years Noel and I taught at the Guild School’s annual “camp,” a gathering of miniaturists on the grounds of the Maine Maritime Academy.

Main Street, Castine watercolor by Noel Thomas circa 1993

I first visited Castine at approximately age 12 (when gas cost. 25, and we were singing nel blu di pinto di blu), the summer my parents chartered a sailboat to cruise the Maine coast. That first time, if memory serves me, we motored into the harbor in late afternoon to tie up alongside the town dock with its sun-bleached floats, mussel and seaweed-encrusted pilings, and long creaky gangway. At the top of the gangway stood a scenic, slightly seedy fried clam stand. From the first whiff I knew, before my mother spoke the words, that we would be breaking the “no snacking before meals” rule. Once we had loaded ice on the boat, found a guest mooring, and walked up the hill to buy milk, we sat on the pier and spoiled our dinner with plump, greasy, salty, heavenly fried clams. Scrolling forward 25 or so years to when Noel and I first visited Castine, there it stood in its latest incarnation—a recently renovated structure called The Breeze.

This photo of the full-sized Breeze was taken the year we first taught the class. As happens with time and weather, the building had changed from the years before--the awning was gone. The new owners decided to replace it with lobster pots.In a recent photo I found online, the pots were gone and a flashy plastic banner had replaced the awning. We're glad we found it when we did.

This photo of the full-sized Breeze was taken the year we first taught the class. As happens with time and weather, the building had changed–the hand-painted rooftop signage was gone–replaced with lobster pots. In a recent photo I found online, the lobster pots and awning were gone, and a plastic banner had replaced the awning.

A few years down the road, about the time we were watching Frasier and humming Oldies, Noel suggested we build The Breeze for a class project. I thought, no way–we’d be trying to recreate a dream. Every visitor stops at The Breeze—for ice cream or a hot dog if they don’t hanker after clams. In a picture-postcard town of elm trees, tidy gardens and formal, white Federal-style homes, the commercial, weathered-shingle Breeze beckons from the town dock like an odd-duck cousin from the other side of the family. Yet, even for a food stand, it’s pretty plain. Away from its romantic harborside backdrop, The Breeze is just a shingled box with an awning, tin roof, and a catchy sign (and sometimes a lobster pot) on top. But everyone loves it. How would we ever make it look as good as a schmaltzy memory, the dreamy idea of it? And it presented so many unknowns–the awning would be a can of worms, and how would we make a tin roof that could be replicated by students?

We might have forgone the tin roof—in full-scale no one could really see the roof—but there was the additional feature of the metal siding on the back wall where the vent over the deep fat fryers dripped its greasy residue. In both cases the metal was a practical solution as well as an interesting architectural feature. In miniature the ribbed metal would add texture, interest, and something new to age.

The solution came from our friend Rick, the local printer. Over the years, we visited Rick in the back of his shop while he inked-up and loaded the press with thin aluminum printing plates. Rick had a way of rattling the plates like thunder sheets as punctuation for his corny jokes, and a penchant for saying, “You ought to be able to use this stuff for your miniatures. How about aluminum siding? How about a trailer, or a Quonset hut?” With The Breeze in mind, Noel brought home a sheet for a trial run, and found it to be just the thing for the project.

The material was Western Linotech 16” X 17 ½” aluminum printing plates, thickness 006, Aqualith-D-SC (probably as scarce now as Royal typewriter ribbons, but worth the search). We paid $2.00 a sheet, which may have been wholesale, but they would have been a bargain at twice the price. The plates were pliable, and thin enough to cut with an Exacto knife. Another advantage was that one side was shiny, the other dulled white, giving you a choice of finishes. For this project we used the dull side out. (For another application, the shiny side, when buffed with 4/0 steel wool looks like stainless steel.) What I describe below is not dictum, but rather a description of how we used the material. Because it was so easily cut, moldable, and easy to paint (on the dull side) it is adaptable for many uses.

Using our project roof dimensions as a guide, we decided three horizontally laid sections—each 5” wide X 3 ¾” deep–of roofing would look best, with the two end sections folding over the ends and bottom of the 1/8” doorskin sub-roof, and the one in the middle folding at the bottom edge. We cut the metal using a metal T-square and Exacto knife, first by scoring the metal, then folding it over the table edge—down, then up—to break it along the score. This produced a cleaner, straighter edge than cutting it through with the knife.

Roof ribbing and edge detail.

To simulate ribbed roofing, Noel scored the underside with a 1/32” nail set and T-square. He placed each section shiny-side up on a mat board, and scored the lines at ½” intervals. Scoring makes the metal curl, so he first taped the edges to the mat board, scoring through the tape. Once scored, the sections were un-taped, and the upward curve flattened by rolling the metal gently in the opposite direction.

To simulate roofing nails on the edges, Noel again used the 1/32” nail set, laying the roof sections shiny-side up on the mat board, then tapping the end of the nail set with a hammer into the metal, making a bulge, not a hole. He chose to place a nailhead at the base of each of the ribs because it looks right, though it may not be the way a real roof would be done. To enhance the look of the nailheads, he then turned over the finished pieces on the mat board, and tapped each bulge lightly with the hammer. This not only flattens the nailheads, but convincingly dimples the surrounding metal, making, as a Noel says, “ a nice reverse pucker.”

Roof detail under sign.

The scored edges of each section were then folded down over the roof edges by pressing them with the rounded Exacto knife handle. Next, they were glued down with Elmer’s and pressed onto the roof. The glued edges were again burnished down with the Exacto handle, and the whole thing was taped down with masking tape. To keep the aluminum flat while drying, he flipped the whole roof section and laid it flat on the work table, and weighting it down with bricks. He then made the ¼” flashing strips to cover the seams between sections using the same methods as above.

Back wall with fan vent and grunge, along with a view of the tin wall. To the left is the back extension tarpaper roof.

Depending on the imagined age of the project, various aging methods can be applied. For The Breeze, the metal was fairly new. We didn’t anticipate how shiny the cut edges would look—they had to be darkened with black felt pen. It didn’t blacken them, but dulled the shine enough to neutralize the overabundant reflection of light. We also applied minimal dirty water washes (using Grumbacher tube acrylics in Mars Black, warmed with a little Raw Umber, mixed with water) over the matte white surface. Noel would later use a lot more of this mix to sufficiently grunge-up the greasy back wall around and under the vent.

The many textures of the Breeze–shingles, tin roofing and siding, and all the utilitarian details of what goes on out back.

Another roof detail would be to tease a little “rust” into the metal surrounding the nail heads and flashing seams. Rust equals a mix of Grumbacher Raw Sienna and Burnt Sienna touched in with a small (#4) watercolor round brush. Being careful not to exaggerate, some rust could be made to “drip” downhill from the nails and seams. The idea with all aging is to suggest, leaving room for the viewer room to imagine the rest. As in music and poetry, the silences make the difference. Time after time, we had to stop ourselves from overdoing a technique that was working well—you don’t want the viewer to notice the artist’s hand in the picture, just be convinced of the illusion of what they are seeing.

Of course, I don’t remember, really, how The Breeze (or its predecessor) looked when I was a child—I was more interested in that red and white paper box mounded with fresh fried clams. What I do remember was the idea of the food stand, and the exotic allure of food that would never be served at home. To me, The Breeze embodied what was great about summer—an escape, eating outside, the creosote-y/seaweedy smell of the dock, gulls bickering from the pilings for scraps, clear, cold blue water and green islands. On returning to the Castine dock for the first time as an adult, I had to order fried clams right away, even though it was 10:00 in the morning. Sitting on that pier 25 years later, eating clams, I was transported. For a moment all my senses were awake, absorbing as they’d absorbed in childhood. For a moment dreams of summer were true. In reality the clams were, well, greasier, but still, they carried the taste of all good summers.

Posted in Houses | Tagged Castine ME, dollhouse miniatures, IGMA Guild School, Roadside architecture, tin roofing | 6 Comments

The Road to Ruins: Walking Rome, Florence, Venice, Siena…

Posted on July 18, 2015 by smallhousepress

The Italian Ruin, with chair by Catherine Soubzmaigne

Noel and I spent our month in Italy combing side streets for out-of-the-way monuments. On foot we hoped to acquire a sense of that country’s architectural flavorings. In Rome’s alleys we ferreted out lesser hunks of ancient ruins, in Venice the cloistered courtyards and canal gardens pocketed off the stony, maze-like footpaths they call streets, and in Florence we spent a warm Sunday morning exploring a section of the ancient and fragmenting city wall that skirts the Oltr’arno district.

City gate and wall in Florence

Just beyond the city gates we picked up the scent of roasting chicken and rosemary which we followed to a line of people leading to the neighborhood Rosticceria (a place we could never find again for a return engagement, but I digress…) where we bought a whole spitted chicken and crispy flatbread (aka carta di musica) intended for dinner later, but consumed instead during the rest of our walk. That would sum up our trip—following our noses, fired by our combined appetites for structural eccentricities and casual food. What’s so great about foreign countries is, of course, that they’re different from home. And older. They give one a chance to see with new eyes (and taste sensations one will never forget, nor find again). If I were to get started on the music, we’d never get back to the story. But it’s all part of the story.

We were looking for something old to reproduce in a classroom setting—the lesser-known marvels of Italy. What caught our eyes—beyond the dazzling museums and cathedrals of Carrera marble and Breccia limestones, and around the corner from the fortress-like Renaissance palazzi—were the intimate, unassuming Medieval structures of stone, plaster, and brick the color of the surrounding hillsides. What we warmed to were the doorways framed in sandstone (two kinds: pietra forte and pietra serena in earthy grays and ochres), walls of rudimentary bricks fired from fine, terra cotta clays, and the motley facades of rose-to-ochre plaster on the region’s less imposing homes and churches.

Florence: the City Wall

On the way to the Rosticceria and pollo arrosto.

Detail of Florence’s city wall

Back home, our task was to condense this month-long visual feast into the bite-sized ruin we promised to teach at the Guild School in a two-day techniques class called Added Attractions. Two days was easy, in theory, not so much in reality, but a great goal for our trip. Months later I would say to Noel, “Just draw what we liked.” While I was working on our week-long class, it was up to him, as chief designer, to leaf through the stacks of trip photos: close-ups of paving stones, weeds dripping from ancient drain pipes, lichen-covered roof tiles, and decaying doorways that led we knew not where. He’s the one who had to revitalize the clouded travel memories and come up with a plausible design–how to introduce people simply to our aged brick, plaster and stone techniques.

Early sketch

After a series of sketches, he came up with the two-sided piece we called Garden Door #7, Italy–aka The Ruin

Starting with a jig saw and 5/8” ply, he cut a ragged outline to suggest the shape of a fragment of a whole garden wall. To build up a door frame and sill, he added pieces of stripwood. The base of ¼” ply is a frame for the surrounding landscape, in this case the stone-paved street on which the wall was situated.

Lunch on a slant in Sienna, where we had to hold onto our plates and glasses. Ghost unknown.

To vary the levels of street-side terrain, Noel made a thick paste of sawdust and Elmer’s glue, to which he added a little water, then grayed with a little Bug Juice. Because a hillside is more engaging than a flat street, on one end of the base he molded a slant with the sawdust and glue mixture, spread with a 1” putty knife. He also made a mound in back by the door, into which he countersunk pieces of stone, brick, and a sprinkling of dirt. For this project we used both dimensional brick (the plaster kind, made more or less to scale) plus our own flat vinyl flooring brick. The stone and sandy dirt we dug out of the yard. To make a finer-grained dirt I baked it in the oven for ½ hour at 350 degrees (to dry it as well as kill the critters), then sifted it through window screening.

Paving stones and aging detail

One consequence of air pollution and the flooding endemic to Northern Italy is the deterioration of brick and plaster walls, which makes for picturesque if precarious architecture. To the benefit of the visitor, hungry for the Old World, the Italians have learned to live with it.

A courtyard gateway in Venice, home to some of the city’s legendary cats.

Our aim was to suggest a wall, similar to the one in the photo, once covered with plaster, but now eroding from the ground up. To achieve this, Noel laid whole and broken bricks in an irregular pattern, rather than the running bond commonly seen here in the States. To add more characteristic eccentricity, he then glued a second and occasional third layer of bricks—enough so the bottom rows, with some chinks out, would stick out further than those higher up, as if the wall were still shifting and breaking away. The address tile was a glazed porcelain mini floor tile, sanded with 600 grit emery cloth to reduce the sheen. The #7 came from a sheet of press-type.

Next, he applied both full and flat bricks to the face of the project in an irregular pattern to achieve the illusion of the rubbled contours of a crumbling wall.

The top of the structure, in the notched pattern called crenellation we saw all over Italy, is also brick over ply.

Crenellation at the top of the Ruin

To save on bricks for the workshop, Noel first built up the thickness of some areas of the wall with additional stripwood. The plaster bricks at the top had an odd way of repelling the Elmer’s, a problem remedied by laying heavy bead of glue along the base of the crenellating bricks, then sprinkling them with dirt, for “tooth”, which held everything in place until the glue dried.

The “sandstone” door frame was made from our favorite Bondex Quick Plug, mixed with water and cement adhesive and applied over the stripwood framing. We later “eroded” the face of the brickwork using an Exacto and 400 grit sandpaper, then grouted them with Quick Plug, wiped off with a damp sponge.

The versatile Quick Plug also makes up the surface of the stone walkway. Once the sawdust and glue mix dried enough to form a good crust, we spread on a thin, even layer of cement, then spritzed it with water to smooth it more. We then carved in the paving stone shapes with an Exacto and a putty knife. Once the walkway was set, but not totally hard, Noel went back with 400 grit wet/dry emery cloth, and, with a circular motion, further glazed the surface.

Front view, bricking and plaster detail

To achieve the rough, stucco-like wall, we used Plaster of Paris, applied with a putty knife (which some students may remember went south in one class, for unknown reasons, and wouldn’t stick). The addition of a small amount of cement adhesive to the plaster may have saved the day. You’ll notice some rows of bricks are plastered over, then scraped away later to expose only parts of the bricks.

The faded ochre color Noel chose to reflect the soil–hence the stucco–of Florence and surrounding Tuscany, where we spent most of our trip. In Venice the wall would have peach tones, while in Rome the plaster is often a pinkish-rose. To paint the piece, he laid it on its back and saturated the dry plaster with water before applying the color with various Grumbacher acrylics and a #10 watercolor round brush. To make the bricks look more Florentine, he also painted on washes of the wall colors, adding deeper colors to indicate the illusion of brick where there was none. The inside, or courtyard-facing wall is entirely indicated brick, which saves time and bricks, and gives the artist some play time with paints. Rust stains, algae, general dirt and grime are also achieved with the paints. If you’re new to painting, sneak up on it—begin with a lot of water, and apply the color sparingly in built-up layers. If you don’t like what you get, flood it with water and wipe it out. It may be that what you have left is the color you want.

Back, or courtyard-facing side of the project.

The non-functioning door is made from the bottom 6” of an old weathered shingle, rescued from the kindling box. Noel cut the shingle into board widths—the side planks approx. 5/8” wide, the middle one 1”, to fill the space–using the unadulterated weather side of the shingle for the door’s street side. He then ran the boards through the table saw to plane the shingle taper to an even thickness of approx. 1/8”. This left a new cedar surface for the inner, or garden side. This “clean” side of the boards was aged by wire-brushing, to bring back the grain. Next, Noel grayed the boards with Bug Juice, and tinted them with muddy green washes made from various leftover cans of green latex paint. Sorry to be so vague on color, but this is how we worked–a little of this, a little of that. He then distressed the door bottom with more wire-brushing and an Exacto knife.

The door cross-braces were cut from the same shingle, distressed to match the rest, and glued to the door. They were then spiked with 5/8” steel brads rusted by soaking in a shallow dish of Bug Juice which was then allowed to evaporate. The brads are cut to length with wire-cutters. Noel started a hole for each “spike” with a push pin, then tapped in the brad, leaving the head slightly protruding to give the illusion of the wood having eroded from around the spike.

Workshop in Florence, with greenery

At the end, I stepped in as the gardener, adding the sprigs of creeping thyme, a ground cover I grew in the yard and dried in silica gel. To green-up the dried leaves, I painted them with Grumbacher sap green tube watercolor, thinned with a little water. Once they were dry, I dotted the back of the stems and leaves with tiny beads of Elmer’s, then carefully held them in place on the wall until the glue took hold.

Rubble, painted-on brick, and vine detail

Having built our miniature reputations as purveyors of the old, Noel and I found Italy–our 20th wedding anniversary gift to ourselves– to be right up our alley. We wanted to soak up as much as we could. To pursue the charm of the streets. To savor every doorway, every crumbling wall, every gritty evidence of Italy’s volatile journey to the present. The added attraction to hoofing it 10-15 miles per day was that we could absorb, without added poundage, endless mouthfuls of pollo arrosto, biscotti, cappucini and gelati.

Venice, our favorite day. The old photo doesn't begin to convey the thrill we felt as we stepped off the train, but there it is--Venice in all its crumbling and drowning beauty.

Venice, our favorite day. This old photo doesn’t begin to convey the thrill we felt as we stepped off the train, but there it is–Venice in all its crumbling and drowning beauty.

Posted in Memoir, Miniatures | Tagged aging miniatures, dollhouse miniatures | 8 Comments

The Care and Feeding of Dollhouse Makers…

Posted on June 14, 2015 by smallhousepress

Sushi in the Desert

or, Fueling the Muse

Part I: Get a Job

The Mini Muse started a hunger strike about ten years into our stint as miniaturists. For most of those years we lived, mind and body, immersed in work (even though work was dollhouses, it had to pay the rent) spending seven days a week, 12-17 hours a day in our miniatures studio. The studio was the largest room in the house. Located at the bottom of the stairs and right next to the front door, it was hard to miss, or avoid. More times than not, we ate there—it seemed simpler to stay with the project on the table. After a while, and about 30 Victorians, we grew tired of moving the same house parts into new configurations. When inspiration yawned, we opted to take 6 months off and get, as they say, “real jobs.”

Noel, with his experience as a fry cook at the first Jack in the Box (San Diego), along with being an Army cook, signed on to peel garlic at a friend’s restaurant. Let’s just say it was by mutual consent that two days later he found himself jobless. Another friend took him on as staff chef and chief biscuit maker. The main problem there was that his bad math skills and dyslexia made baking and serving “biscuits for three” (3X2) a comedy routine, but the laughs (and great biscuits) kept him employed.

Another friend with a printing shop hired me to help run a press. It was an old and ticklish offset press, used mainly for flyers and throw-aways, and the owner was the original Mr. Jury-Rig (I’m talking string and chewing gum), so I spent much of that 6 months fighting with and swearing at the recalcitrant machinery. We lost a friend in the process (restaurant #1), but made it through our commitments. Barely. The big lesson learned was that we were unemployable—too long under our own rule, it was agony working under someone else’s, even a friend’s. And, the mini studio never looked so good.

Part II: The Sushi Solution

It was a find, that little cafe at the end of a long day on the road. We were on our way home from delivering our 38^th dollhouse—the big Greene & Greene–and had driven along in silence for hours. We just wanted some food and a bed. The road delivered, in the middle of nowhere, a motel on one side of the road, a cafe on the other. The fact that the café was Japanese, with a sushi bar, was serendipitous—our first date had been at a sushi bar, and we sought them out wherever we traveled. This one was a gem–family-run, with Mom hosting and waiting table, Dad and Grandma in the kitchen, and the kids doing their homework at one of the tables. With GREAT sushi! As I recall, we were the only customers. After toasting our day with a little sake, Noel said from across the table, “I want to get back to painting.” I nodded, because all day I had been thinking about how to make time to get back to writing.

I had written since childhood, starting with doll stories at a desk in my bedroom, then on through high school and college until I eventually found ways to write for pay, including advertising copy (where Noel and I met), and more recently in my miniatures column for Nutshell News. But I was getting the itch to see where creative writing might take me.

Noel was painting long before I met him—several decades and careers before. Two of his student watercolors hung in our dining room, and in our bedroom we slept under two large acrylics—one of his shoes (6 pairs, from Italian leather dress shoes to desert boots and worn tennies) and the other of a hangerful of neckties he had worn to brighten up his Madison Ave. suits, each signed Noel ’66.

Though we slept under Noel’s paintings, our dream lives connected us like umbilical cords to the miniatures studio. Of course the dollhouse Muse was again begging for refreshment–our days were resembling a menu with no variation. We needed some juice, some fire for the operation to continue. The question wasn’t what, but how. The answer was clear: to feed the Muse, use the Muse. Miniatures would become our day job, and the rest would be for fun and replenishment. “Deal?” Right there at the table we resolved to act like real people and start taking evenings off, and spending weekends pursuing the other talents we were fortunate enough to be born with. “Deal!”

Part II: The Italian Connection

Fast forward to 1995. Noel was painting on weekends out of his studio across the river in Oregon, and I had staked out one end of the dining room for writing. Over weekend meals we compared the ups and downs of our solitary time. Clinton was President. Toy Story introduced the first ever wholly computer generated film, the U.S. Space Shuttle Atlantis docked with the Russian Mir space station, peace was declared in the Balkans, and The Dead announced their break-up. By then we were beyond knowing anything about pop singers or the top 40. Our big news was we were heading to Italy for a month.

After 21 years of dollhouses, it was my parents who convinced us we weren’t getting any younger, and it was time for a travel break. We were stumped over what to teach next–the Guild School was proposing double classes, a 3-day, followed by a 6-day, so, two projects per year. We also felt empty-headed about the next commissioned piece—a gift really, from a client who posed the challenge of what did we want to make next? We were turning away commissions, as we had no idea how to fill this one.

Over the years, clients and students had requested European buildings, but without living with them, we didn’t feel we could do them justice. And that kind of travel seemed like more than we could swing. My dreamy father suggested we ask Noel’s painting clients to pay in advance for any paintings to come out of the trip, which somehow didn’t mesh with my version of how to stay sane and/or fiscally solvent. Then a friend spent an afternoon and evening hooking us with stories of his year in Italy—the history, the art, the food! How does one decide to throw caution to the wind (yet again) and spend a month in Italy? The same way we left Los Angeles and advertising for dollhouses and a beach in Washington.

October 1. It’s 5:00 a.m. at the airport. After a sleepless night churning over small potatoes, like the Italian word for “fork,” and locking ourselves out of our motel room (twice) in the flurry of leaving, we’re pacing. We are also headed for a room in Florence (one star), armed with Eurail passes and an invitation from friends in Vienna. The dog and cats are parked with the dog & cat sitter. At the last moment my parents gift us with the cost of the airfare.

A One-Star View of Florence

Posted in Memoir, Miniatures | Tagged dollhouse miniatures, IGMA Guild School, travel, work style | 17 Comments

The Last of the Bungalows: A Labor of Love

Posted on May 30, 2015 by smallhousepress

1994 Bungalow teaching project, currently residing at the National Museum of Toys & Miniatures in Kansas City

Our obsession with Charles & Henry Greene, and the Arts and Crafts Bungalow style, reached its finale in late 1994 when we started the Craftsman Bungalow teaching project. By then we’d been making miniature houses for twenty years, and teaching week-long techniques workshops for around fifteen of those. Most years we taught 3-4 times at various locations around the country, including our favorite, Castine, ME, home of the IGMA Guild School, and the amicable locals who liked to call us The Little People (we arrived with the lilacs–between the mud season, and the blackfly season). The School required we dream up a new class every couple of years, which was good, on the one hand, because it insured that both we and our repeat students would keep returning. On the other, it was a challenge to design something new that often. By ‘94 we had done nine different classes, many of which we kept in rotation, and what to do next loomed large.

A little bungalow class was tempting, considering our love of the style, but teaching all that detailing felt like biting off more than we could chew. As it happened, one early morning in Ventura, CA, where we were teaching a workshop, we walked the beach to the newly restored pier. At the near end was a compact, well-conceived and executed Greene & Greene-inspired information center. A little gem. A sweetie of Greene-ish bungalow, and just the spur we needed to see that our favorite style could be hugely abbreviated and still maintain its integrity.

Besides being new and fun, a teaching project had to be doable in 5-6 days. It had to employ readily available materials, and, at the end of class, fit into a 20”X 15”X 15” shipping box for the student to take home. It also had to utilize new techniques, and look different from anything else we’d done. To keep it simple, we decided to make it a house fragment—a “house” containing just one room. Even though there was no time to teach interiors, we needed one for the prototype, to show the students what might be done. For ours we chose a living room. Because the Bungalow Era ushered in the notion of the living room (as being more “democratic” than the Victorian parlor), that was the natural choice. Noel then set out to design an overall, simple configuration for the exterior that would evoke the feeling of a whole house, as well as capture the underlying spirit of the style.

Before and after porch decks

The essence of Bungalows is the harmony of textures, both visual and tactile, which became our next priority. One of the first elements we tackled was the cement (or “gunite,” which was cement sprayed on under pressure) base and porch. We made ours from Bondex Quick Plus Hydraulic Cement, a quick-drying patching cement available through builder’s supply stores in 3 lb. boxes, along with cement adhesive to hold it together.

To apply, we moistened a small batch of cement with a little water and a few drops of adhesive, mixing it with an old fork (not your favorite dinner flatware) in a small, disposable yogurt cup. We then spread it on the plywood porch walls and floor, quickly, with a putty knife. Noel then performed his magic, texturing the walls with his fingers, swirling and patting the cement as it (rapidly) dried. The aim is to have a thin, smooth surface overall. The red brick trim on the top step—more texture and color—continues around the inner periphery of the porch floor, and needs to be applied and dry before the cementing process. Use a damp sponge to clean the cement off the brick. Timing, our Bungalow students will recall, is everything, especially in the case of spreading cement.

Creeping fig/thyme

To simulate the tiny-leaved creeping fig that grows along the Greene’s Gamble House porch, I used gray-green wooly thyme, a common ground cover I grew in the yard for that purpose (don’t forget, this is our third Greene & Greene project). The thyme retains its leaves and color best when dried for a few weeks in silica gel (a florist’s supply). After that, I touched up the color with undiluted Winsor Newton Sap Green tube watercolor, painted sparingly onto the individual leaves. Once they were dry, I cut the thyme into sprigs, and glued it to the cement with Elmer’s white glue. Yes, Elmer’s takes forever to dry, so I would apply a few pieces and hold them there until sticky enough to stay on the wall, then move on, checking back from time to time to give them a little push. In my experience, instant glues just attach your fingers to the wall. Plus, the Elmer’s gives the leaves and branches a little cushioning, so you don’t flatten, or break them in the process. The grass underneath is our usual Pacific Northwest moss, harvested from the dunes and glued to the dirt (real dirt) terrain.

The shingled siding was a major element in the design. The Greene’s weathered-shingle houses not only fit into the surrounding landscape, they seem to grow from it. We liked the way the houses of inland Pasadena weathered to an ash brown rather than the silver-gray we think of for coastal houses. To achieve this color on our mahogany shingles, we darkened them with Bug Juice before gluing them to the project. Once they were in place, and dry, we painted on a wash of 50/50 chlorine bleach and water, to both lighten the color, and further age the grain. Bleach also lends the wood a subtle greenish cast, which adds to the illusion of age. To further develop the aging, we lightly sanded the shingles (with a downward motion, only) with fine emery paper, then applied a final coat of full strength Bug Juice.

The base, house and porch trims—the exterior grid of supporting posts, beams, rafters and banding–are as visually weighty as the shingles. To achieve the signature Greene brothers’ green stain, Noel first cut the trims from fine-grained cedar, then rounded the edges of each piece slightly with emery paper. Rafter ends were angled on the table saw, and the outermost edges rounded. He then grayed all with Bug Juice, and let them dry. Next, he brushed on a very thin, transparent acrylic patina-green wash (a thin stain, with lots of water) of 4 parts Titanium White, 1 part Permanent Light Green, and 1 part Thalo Green). By “part” I mean a small squirt of acrylic tube paint, as directed, mixed in a jar with water until you have a transparent wash to paint on the wood. Less is more–it is best to start with a thin layer of wash, then re-apply as necessary. Our aim was to have the grayed cedar grain show through the color.

cloud lift

Two signature elements of the Greene’s style our students would need to make are the cloud lift, and the scarf joint. examples of these are found both inside and out. If you look closely at the photo above, you can see an example of the cloud lift (above the porch deck), and the scarf joint (about half way down the horizontal banding on the right wall).The best interior photo on our our version is in the upper horizontal banding, and inside in the picture molding opposite the inglenook, it is not only elegant and functional, but brilliantly conceived. The genius of this joint is that when the pegs (in full-size houses) shrink with age, and loosen, they continue to fasten the joint together. The balance of the long joint and the pegs’ wiggle-room allows some give, so when the earth trembles and heaves, the joints can glide without breaking.

scarf joint

The black composition roll roofing provides yet another texture and color. For this we used fine emery cloth, a tricky-to-work-with but ultimately satisfactory substitute material. The tricky part is when the black grit wants to lift off on your wet hands, leaving bare blue patches where the paper shows through. To simulate roll roofing, we cut the cloth in 3” wide strips, then laid it face down on fresh newspaper to apply Elmer’s glue. The glue is dripped on, then rubbed carefully over the entire back of the strip, enough to meet the edges, but not leak around them to the grit side. I then pressed the strips in place on the roof with dry, clean fingers, starting at the bottom edge of the roof, wrapping the edges of the cloth around the roof edges. At first the emery paper is stiff and difficult to work with, but you will find it soon reaches a pliable stage from the penetration of the glue, as well as the warmth of your hands. It’s a crucial time, as that is also when the surface is most likely to start disintegrating. Working my way up the roof, I overlapped the strips by ¼.” You can also “tar” the edges with right-from-the-tube Mars Black acrylic paint.

Rolled roofing in progress, edges taped down with masking tape while drying.

My familiarity with the grittiness of rolled and tarred roofing comes out of my heedless post-college summers in New York, rooftop sunbathing under the smoggy skies of the 60s. Not only did the sky pepper my skin with cinders and ash, but the sticky tar beneath softened in the heat and glued lumps of itself to me and my bathing suit.

To age the roof, we made a milky-dirty wash of water, Titanium white, and a little raw umber, all Grumbacher tube acrylics. One method is to apply this mix gingerly (once the glue is completely dry), with a foam brush. It’s tricky, as the cloth quickly reaches a stage of saturation where the grit comes off on the brush. Alternately, one can use the brush for the edges and under the eaves, and apply the rest sparingly from a spray bottle, allowing each application to dry fully before applying the next. This being a residential structure, the end result should be muted—just enough to take the ‘new” out of the black surface.

Interior in progress

The detailing of the Craftsman interior was a labor of love—Noel’s. Once again, I was amazed at how much light and subtle texture the Greens worked into their stained, hardwood interiors. Noel’s job was to translate the original materials and craftsmanship into miniature terms. As with the originals, he was able to cut flooring from oak, ripping 1/16″ X 3/16” floorboards from our cache of full-size oak flooring. He then laid the individual strips with Elmer’s, and when the glue was dry, hand-sanded the floor and stained it with McClosky’s Tungseal transparent Light Oak stain. When the stain was fully dry, smoothed the wood further with 0000 fine steel wool, and applied a coat of McClosky’s Dark Oak, which he then wipes off with a paper towel and allowed it to dry. Finally, he applied Johnson’s paste wax by hand, and buffed it with a soft cotton cloth. (Note: McClosky’s is no longer available—a real loss for miniaturists and cabinetmakers alike).

Note the inglenook to the right, with the windowseat lid open.

The rest of the woodwork is basswood, instead of the fine hardwoods of the originals. If you buy enough basswood stock, you can find almost any grain you want to stand in for hardwoods. This he finished with the same method as the flooring. A trademark Greene & Green feature is the use of ebony pegs to fasten the paneling. For these Noel used a dyed-through black paper—in this case a cover sheet from a pad of tracing parchment, which he cut with an X-acto knife, and glued to the wood’s surface. I think the pegging makes the room—it’s such a subtle yet elegant detail that the viewer discovers along the way.

Note the light switches to the left of the door.

Another killer interior Greene detail is the ebony baseboard outlets, and light switch covers with Mother-of-pearl push buttons, made from modified Metal Miniatures covers. Noel trimmed the corners, sprayed it all flat black, and used pearlescent nail polish for the buttons.

The Craftsman wallpaper frieze (at the top of the walls) Noel designed by combining stencil patterns from a period reproduction book—The Craftsman, an Anthology, ed. by Barry Sanders, 1978, Peregrine Smith, Inc.

Original frieze painting.

He drew his repeat tree design on the back side of strips of old wallpaper (for its surface texture and time-yellowed color), and colored them with watercolors. He started with 3-4 trees on a sample strip, and asked what I thought—great, I said, and so fast! So fast we decided he could teach that in class as a bonus for the students. Then he began the step and repeat for real, enough to go all around the room, which took a lot more time than planned.

Frieze applied before trims.

More than just repeating a tree design, it was about maintaining spacing, anticipating how the pattern would change at the corners of the room, and keeping the colors consistent, so no one tree stood out from another. Once he drew in enough to band the whole room, we photocopied the design for the students to then trace back onto wallpaper. Neither way was an easy process, but the end results gave the room another subtle boost, a little more warmth.

Finished interrior. Bridge lamp is by the Kummerows. Noel built the hanging fixtures from opalescent glass, photo-etched brass, and basswood

Finished interior. Bridge lamp is by the Kummerows. Noel built the hanging fixtures from opalescent glass, photo-etched brass, and basswood

With this little house–our fond farewell to the ghosts of Charles & Henry Greene, et al–we and our students found that even a little Greene & Greene is a lot–a lot of work, but also a lot to enjoy. Their houses have been called “art as architecture” and, like a good painting, book, or piece of music, can be savored again and again. And, we were set for teaching for another couple of years, and could take a breather. Or so we thought…

Posted in Houses, Miniatures, Teaching | Tagged Bungalow style, Castine ME, dollhouse miniatures, Greene & Greene, IGMA Guild School, Kansas City Minature Museum, rolled roofing, shingles | 8 Comments

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The Homecoming or, All the World’s a Stage…

Madama Butterfly and the Toy Theaters of Siena: The Davis Theater, Pt. 2

Once Upon a Theater: The Davis Theater, Part 1

The Breeze, Pt. IV: The Nitty-Gritty of Utility Sinks

Cooking Up the Breeze: Interior, Pt. 1

The Breeze, Pt. II: The Question of Awnings

The Breeze and I—Putting a Roof on It

The Road to Ruins: Walking Rome, Florence, Venice, Siena…

The Care and Feeding of Dollhouse Makers…

The Last of the Bungalows: A Labor of Love

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