As you would expect, living on a barrier island I have a large assortment of seashells at my little house, both inside and out. They collect dust on various tables and counters and litter the yard underneath bushes and on decks and steps. Like fingerprints, no two are exactly alike. Some are perfect specimens with each gleaming ridge and surface unmarred. But most of my shells are beautifully broken, just as I am and like most people I have known throughout my life.
I have never strived for perfection. I do the best I can and for me that's just fine. If it isn't okay to anyone else, I really don't care. My house is never spotlessly clean, my hair is not without issues, and my figure doesn't resemble a sailor's vision of a mermaid. I can say the wrong things, fib, and become impatient. I am broken, not whole, incomplete.
In the same way I choose a friend or lover for their quirkiness and individuality instead of perfection, when I'm choosing a shell to sketch or paint, I am not drawn to the collector's specimen. I go for the broken ones; the ones with the slices, chips, worm holes and worn edges, exposing their insides for all to see. For they are braver than I am. They don't just sit on a table looking pretty. They require me to look deeper, understand what they are made of and accept them for what they are. For they too have a story to tell and just want someone to listen.
Here's a step-by-step look at a handmade book I created highlighting broken shells.
Admit it, you think they are beautiful too.
|This book is available through my Etsy Shop.|