It’s almost tragic that I live in northern Michigan, miles and miles from the ocean. I love conch shells and the only way I ever find them is in garage sales. I grew up in the Midwest and the only shells to be found were the flat, brownish river clams. Conch shells are the Lady Gagas of the shell world: gawdy, shiny, masterful creations! I always think of the time back in the mid-90’s when I trekked along the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu. Sunshine Eagle, the leader of our group insisted I give a blast on my conch shell ever so often. I’d give a good blast now, but it’d scare the bejesus out of my cats.
It was kind of a crazy day, starting out with multiple errands in town again. The dreaded ice storm never materialized. But I accomplished a lot, fixing my computer mouse and solving a mystery about a non-working ceiling light. So it was a good day to finally mosey out to the studio, coffee in hand, to spend the afternoon painting conch shells, listening to classical music. Tomorrow: the petals!