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French legal document cover, 1872.
Quite a flamboyant spring green for such somber subject matter.
Rather twirly trim, too.
The reverse fold is filled with facts and figures for the years 1865 through 1872.
And under the covers - flowing sepia script and bombshell embossing.
Lost soul.
Wanderlust.
Seeking adventure.
The road less travelled.
Midnight and moonshine.
A heart etched by the stars.
Constellations of love.
A few finds for an upcoming project.
Trinkets and Trifles from someone else's past.
Perhaps I was a magpie in a past life?
I have journals to finish.
I'm recovering from a bit of physical cut & paste.
I have a show this weekend.
So I started to move things.
Which meant I had to move more things.
And everything got piled on top of the natural history department.
And I have a mess.
She's embarrassed.
She won't even make eye contact any more.
My stuff is in her space.
Messy.
This is what I feel like doing now.
Overwhelmed.
Messy.
Mess.
Mess.
The brocante does not encourage complacency.
When I first spotted this, a chorus of angels was singing somewhere overhead.
I may have uttered a few holy words, in the most unholy of manners.
It is a calendar.
At first I thought it was a perpetual calendar, from the year 1799.
But no.
It was designed to translate the Calendrier Républicain, and it is a work of art and engineering.
There is a wheel inside that turns behind the top two windows. Also inside are numerous little sliding cards with the days of the week, numbers, months, and years written on them.
All hand ruled and lettered.
Held together with a thread and two pins.
Breathtaking.
Cue angels and radiant light.
A box in the post today.
A box full to the brim with brocante treasures.
Scrumbliumptiousness!
One of those days when none of the photos worked. Not a one. The journals are getting uppity. There are now seven little beauties and they will make their way to etsy in a few weeks' time. I think the fact that you said nice things about them gave them airs. They have not deigned to be photographed today.
A change of scenery is in order.
French tools from yesteryear.
A hand forged brass protractor.
A very old brass canister with equally old metal stamps.
The number 2 alone convinced me that I should pay the far-too-dear-yet-inflexible asking price.
Have I ever used them? No.
Does it matter? No. Of course not.
Oh, mon Dieu!
This appeared in a batch of old documents.
Old documents that I have leafed through dozens of times.
And missed ... this.
A Contract de Mariage dated 1734.
The rain is falling in sheets and the hillside is draped in fog.
I am happily making journals.
First the covers. French documents. Script from the 1700s. Police reports. Letters to an esteemed Monsieur.
Pages are cut, delicious thick paper that can be sketched or written on both sides.
Saving the best for last. The little labels and clippings and snippings that fit so well together. Patterned tapes and tiny stencils to add a little extra flavour.
Such happiness to be found on a grey grey day.
Jenni's perspective so beautiful and true. Merci, Jenni.
xoxo
