How Much Do You Notice?
|Entwined Soap in Honey, Ginger & Cream|
arrived on the scene asked me if I would be willing to come down to the station and look at mug shots. I agreed but to this day, the experience stays with me. Why? Because it was harrowing? Because the coffee was so bitter, I was certain it had come from a steel campfire pot that sat brewing all day in Montana?
No. I realized once I began peering at the pages of criminals, that I never really saw the man. It happened so fast. The victim's purse strap was so long and her scream so curdling. It was she I spied. Indeed, I could describe her countenance down to the parentheses that wrapped her mouth. I could recite her punctuated staccato "STOP Him! STOP Him!" And that purse? Gorgeous maroon leather! But the thief? Virtually nothing. Zilch. I was of no aid. I would sleep and never dream of the rogue snatcher.
In the Studio, days are often not only about getting the soap and creams made, but about fashioning the new, and noticing the slimmest of details. That my mint soap sold in the heat of summer must smell clean, almost ocean blue and never ever like December candy canes. That a man will rarely buy a pink soap unless it for Mothers Day, and that round soaps--even fat ones-- are easier to hold in the palm of a hand then sharp edged squares. Ah, Details. What do you notice?
wanda fleming, 2011