My ETSY shop is open again!

I have finally opened my ETSY shop again after having it closed for 4 months while I moved. Much of my work was in storage for 2 years so it hasn't been available all that time. But I have it all together now thankfully. I still have a lot of work I will be listing in coming months that was in galleries previously and never available on ETSY so I am excited about that. I need to get my camera out and start photographing it all for the listings. Here are a few samples of my collage and jewelry work from my ETSY shop.

Come visit! https://www.etsy.com/shop/MaureenTillman?ref=si_shop

Queen Anne's Lace

I've been away from this blog too long. I moved this summer and it has been taking me a long time to get settled, thus I have been neglecting my blog.  I chose this place because it backs up on a forest and I can expect to see lots of wildlife. I saw a fox in my backyard the other day.

This piece is my newest compilation. I started by taking photos of the Queen Anne's Lace that stood so tall and elegant along the forest edge bordering my yard. I was delighted by all the different, beautiful, delicate stages of the seed heads. Truly breathtaking.

Among Women by Marie Ponsot

What women wander?

Not many. All. A few.

Most would, now and then,

and no wonder.

Some, and I’m one,

Wander sitting still.

My small grandmother

Bought from every peddler

Less for the ribbons and lace

Than for their scent

Of sleep where you will,

Walk out when you want, choose

Your bread and your company.

She warned me, “Have nothing to lose.”

She looked fragile but had

High blood, runner’s ankles,

Could endure, endure.

She loved her rooted garden, her

Grand children, her once

Wild once young man.

Women wander

As best they can

An April Night by Lucy Maud Montgomery

The moon comes up o'er the deeps of the woods,

And the long, low dingles that hide in the hills,

Where the ancient beeches are moist with buds

Over the pools and the whimpering rills;

And with her the mists, like dryads that creep

From their oaks, or the spirits of pine-hid springs,

Who hold, while the eyes of the world are asleep,

With the wind on the hills their gay revellings.

Down on the marshlands with flicker and glow

Wanders Will-o'-the-Wisp through the night,

Seeking for witch-gold lost long ago

By the glimmer of goblin lantern-light.

The night is a sorceress, dusk-eyed and dear,

Akin to all eerie and elfin things,

Who weaves about us in meadow and mere

The spell of a hundred vanished Springs.

Thatched Cottage at Sunset

Just a vestige of my ancient Irish roots in honor of the upcoming St. Patrick's Day!

                                       Erin go Bragh!

http://fineartamerica.com/featured/thatched-cottage-at-sunset-maureen-tillman.html?newartwork=true

February: Thinking of Flowers by Jane Kenyon

Now wind torments the field,

turning the white surface back

on itself, back and back on itself,

like an animal licking a wound.

Nothing but white--the air, the light;

only one brown milkweed pod

bobbing in the gully, smallest

brown boat on the immense tide.

A single green sprouting thing

would restore me. . . .

Then think of the tall delphinium,

swaying, or the bee when it comes

to the tongue of the burgundy lily.

An Afternoon in February by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The day is ending,

The night is descending;

The marsh is frozen,

The river dead.

Through clouds like ashes

The red sun flashes

On village windows

That glimmer red.

The snow recommences;

The buried fences

Mark no longer

The road o’er the plain;

While through the meadows,

Like fearful shadows,

Slowly passes

A funeral train.

The bell is pealing,

And every feeling

Within me responds

To the dismal knell.

Shadows are trailing,

My heart is bewailing,

And tolling within

Like a funeral bell.