Tiny Cabinet, Tiny Stuff

Almost everything in my apartment has an immediately visible purpose. That’s more a function of my recent move than of my success with Mari Kondo—I drove from Boston to Tucson two months ago, with just the stuff I could fit in the car. My miniature things are the exception. They look decorative, like tchotchkes, not like the useful things your mom asks if you’ve bought yet. Their tininess made them relatively easy to pack, but really, I brought them because I love them.

I’m far from alone in that. People love tiny things. The internet’s full of everything, so this isn’t saying much, but the internet’s full of miniatures (tiny hedgehog birthday! tiny donuts! more than 1k Etsy items!). Tucson even has a Museum of Miniatures.

There’s a correspondingly large number of thinkpieces theorizing on why we love tiny objects. Tl;dr: minis make us feel nurturing and tender; minis make us feel safe, because they can’t hurt us; and minis make us feel in control. The first two of those felt pretty self-evident to me. The third one made me feel seen naked.

Let me back up, and make a distinction. The publicly beloved miniatures I linked to above are specifically aesthetic experiences—tiny things created and shared because we love to look at them. YouTube videos, museum exhibits.

The miniatures in my apartment—and, now, in my Tiny Cabinet—have a different kind of purpose: I like to actually use them. I like packing those little books on hikes and actually reading them, keeping my pins in the little straw cup (the smallest of a nesting set, and obviously, my favorite), frying an egg in the little white pot even though it’s totally not nonstick and a pain to clean. I use them as practical objects, even when their smallness makes them less practical than some other object might be.

(The broken yolk is a disappointment, but that’s the only egg I had in the house.)

Collecting all of my little things in one place—this cabinet—makes some of them, like the plate and pot and lid, look relatively large. 

It's not a flattering effect. Seeing those objects no longer as miniatures, I love them less. The objects that seem even littler in this juxtaposition, I love correspondingly more. Why? What is it about smallness, cuteness?

Left to right: Much Ado About Nothing, Taming of the Shrew, two unopened Moleskines I got as a gift, an opened in-progress one, Othello, my wallet

I like to control small details. People who don’t know me well might (I hope) not know about that tendency. It’s embarrassing. We’re supposed to “have chill.” My best friends know that I have no chill. (I recognize that the quotation marks reveal me as someone who learns what the young people are up to by reading Atlantic articles. Might as well unmask fully, right?)

My Google calendar’s schedule down to the 5-minute increment, and I keep a “have done” list alongside my “to do” list. It sounds odd, but I schedule so aggressively so that I can allow myself to take breaks. I’m overwound (for many reasons—that’s an essay for another day) and the best way I’ve found to make myself relax (I know) is to keep track of every bit of productivity, so that I can look at it, tell myself I’ve done enough, and rest. I get a lot done, collect the evidence, and bask in it, like raking the yard and then jumping in the leaf pile.

So, yeah, control. My miniatures let me organize details, down to a satisfyingly small scale. They let me tidy a little corner of my life, then look at that tidiness and say, at least this is fixed. The most uncomfortable thing about adulthood for me is that tasks don’t stay done—you take care of your doctor’s appointments and taxes and budgeting and laundry and groceries and house cleaning, and time passes, and you have to take care of them again. My miniatures stay organized, calming, held. They give me dominion over little subsections of my life, making it more okay that I’ll never fully control most of it.

GOOD DOG // BAD ART

by Hea-Ream Lee

I am not an artist, but I love my dog. Or rather, I write so I guess that would make me an artist of the word variety, but I mean of the visual sort. Or rather, my family’s dog, Carly, who lives with my parents and sister in the suburbs of Baltimore. But yeah, I love her, and the bad art I make of her.

In order to make this bad art I look at pictures of her I’ve taken, pictures in which she is luxuriantly splayed out on her side with her little feet crossed like a proper princess. Or she’s sitting in such a position that her fluffy white fur gets pushed up and she looks like a swirl of icing atop a cupcake. Or she’s blurry because it’s a screenshot taken during a FaceTime call, when my mom holds her phone up to Carly’s face so I can talk to her and she can stare blankly back with her giant blueberry eyes. I love these pictures for the same reason that I love the dumb, bad art I make of her--because these representations are so earnest, so nakedly filled with love. 

There is a photo of David Hockney in which he is sitting in front of a wall full of paintings he has done of his two weiner dogs, Boodgie and Stanley. The look on his face is one of smug and complete joy-- he is so clearly smitten with them. He slumps in a low-slung chair with his arms curled protectively around them in his armchair where they sit like sentries, or propped up sausages.

When I make art about my dog I think about her tiny little face--she’s a maltese pomeranian mix--and her floppy little ears and the gentle snoring sounds she exudes when she’s lying on the couch, and the laser beams she shoots at me with her eyes when I’m eating something that she wants a piece of, and her little chicken feet and her warm proteinous smell, like egg yolks, how she feels in my arms when I pick her up and carry her around baby-style--like a pillow full of warm jello. I like to think that the way I feel about her when I look at these pictures is replicated in my lopsided portraits of her. 

GOOD DOG // BAD ART is an attempt at pulling together these earnest and joyful representations of my dog, and a celebration of bad art in general. Art that is devoid of nuance, or a point of view (other than ‘I love this thing’), art that does not intellectualize and asks no new questions, reveals nothing about the subject or the artist, little ole me. 

Hockney wrote, “I make no apologies for the apparent subject matter… these two dear little creatures are my friends.” And so neither will I.

GOOD DOG // BAD ART

Hea-Ream Lee (b. 1993)
Carly, 2019
Acrylic on canvas

Hea-Ream Lee (b. 1993)
Carly, 2019
Acrylic on canvas

Hea-Ream Lee (b. 1993)
Carly Sleeping, 2019
Polymer clay

Hea-Ream Lee (b. 1993)
Bust of Carly, 2019
Clay

Hea-Ream Lee (b. 1993)
Carly in repose, 2019
Charcoal on newsprint

Hea-Ream Lee (b. 1993)
Carly as cupcake, 2019
Graphite on newsprint

A small alpaca doll that I bought in Hudson, NY because it reminded me of Carly

Carly, as marshmallow




Carly taking in her own image 

The artist and her dog

In the Storm Sewers

As originally seen installed about a mile into the storm sewer emptying into the Rillito River in Tucson at the Campbell bridge, the skinned Big Mouth Billy Basses return for a surprise engagement in the University of Arizona's Tiny Cabinet. So as not to destroy the sanity of the denizens of the Modern Languages building they are not turned on…for now. Instead, you can see them in their glory below, should you care to:

Hidden Significance: A Personal Account

A collection of books with peculiar names, a cup with “pokey puppy” imprinted on it, a deck of cards from a smoky 1970s era casino, and a portrait of our world from a 3rd person point of view. How could these seemingly unrelated objects tell you something about a particular person? Well, let me try to show you. 

I try to get up most mornings at 4AM. The alarm on my phone wakes me; emanating from the nightstand on which it sits. The phone is the first thing I see, the second is the earth. No, not my general surroundings, like the shoddy oak-wood desk that sits near my decade old bed frame, or the lamp that is missing its shade though I keep telling myself I’ll buy a new one. Instead, it’s a literal image of the earth, from a third person point of view. Probably taken by a voyaging space craft as it ventured out towards the stars, looking back on the terrestrial ball on it which it owed its existence. The earth appears to be surrounded by complete darkness. This offers me something. A reminder, if nothing else, that I’m a very, very small speck, briefly lingering on a tiny dot in a increasingly vast universe. It helps to start my day with the realization and mindset that while this life, this year, this day, may be my one chance, and my actions matter; it also keeps it in perspective, that no one really cares about the mistakes I make as much as I do. The small mistakes I make today are opportunities to learn from, not dwell on for the sake of 7 billion others. If this resonates with you, I suggest you find a picture of the earth and dwell on it for awhile, and the significant insignificance of the simple mistakes you make on a daily basis. 

I’m walking in loneliness. 

A small black book. Engraved into its spine with gold lettering, the words “Bad Hair”. A very relatable title. I’ve spent twenty three years trying to figure out how to style my fine, wispy hair; always envious of those with thicker locks, and an easier experience. I’ve bought more gels, pomades and waxes than I ever could have used, but most I’ve thrown out within a few weeks because they never work out. Within the book itself are endless pictures of how not to style ones hair. I’m sure many of my styles over the years are somewhere to be found. My dad had the same issues, though he gave up trying to style his hair, he just let it be. At some point I asked myself why I do it, and for who? Especially since I hate the struggles with my hair, it’s important to know. If I’m honest, I was doing it for others, especially in my teens. To fit in? Now, It’s less important, though I still have to maintain a mane for work. Again, doing it for others. Maybe I should follow in my dad’s footsteps, let it sit. Would anyone actually care? 

I want you to look at this deck of cards and let me gloat, that’s the only reason they’re in this tiny cabinet. One evening my girlfriend brought them home from one of her thrifting journeys and flashed the case at me. I told her I could do a parlor trick and predict what year they were printed. I had no clue, but guessed “1974”. When she flipped up the top lip…. “1974”. I’m currently exploring my psychic abilities. 

Underneath “bad hair”, lays a thick pink volume, published in the early 20th century entitled “Vogue’s Book of Etiquette”. I found it for 10 cents one morning at a Goodwill. It instructs the reader how to act in public and private, it gives examples of proper handshakes, goodbyes, dinner-dates, even how to (and when) to invite your boss to dinner. All important lessons, at least in the 20th century. During the last decade of that century, I began attending a private Lutheran school. From preschool to eighth grade the kind, seemingly God-fearing teachers taught me the fundamentals of schooling. I also had the opportunity to develop rapport with my teachers with one-on-one interactions. Though, there was a downside. There was one other student in my grade, and he wasn’t what one might call “socialized” either. I hadn’t developed the “etiquette” (or lack thereof) that was expected when I entered the public school system in 9th grade. There were rules I didn’t have the chance to learn. Suffice to say, my high school years were filled with my own insecurities and the development of my social capabilities. If only i’d had a book that could teach me these things. 

The Pokey Little Puppy. If someone in your life read you children’s books growing up in the Midwestern United States, this was probably one of them. I know it was for me. So, as a six year old with a serious love for Sunny-D, I obviously needed a cup that could resemble two of my favorite things. A sugar fueled, tooth rotting liquid, and a playful pup. This cup has seen all the stages of Calvin. It’s held more than just Sunny-D over the years; cough syrup, chocolate milk, etc. These days though, it serves as more of a symbol than a functional glass. We all need our relics right? 

An integral part of my career is the effective de-escalation of people in difficult situations. Sometimes they’re agitated, sometimes they’re livid and acting out. Many times all I need to do is give them some support. Others, only a rigid edge and clear direction can contain. Not all situations end happily, but I firmly believe that 100% of confrontations can be ended amiably with a whole lot of verbal de-escalation and a certain amount of emotional defense. The physical should never be something you want. This book is a reminds me that the “gentle” can be just as important as the “harsh” or “firm” in these situations. I carry this out of my career, and into my personal life. It might serve you well too. 

My trekking pack was lost by United Airlines somewhere in between Phoenix - Minneapolis - Amsterdam. When I arrived in Europe for what was supposed to be a month long backpacking expedition, taking trains from the Nordic to the Mediterranean, I didn’t have anything but my passport, euros, and a North Face jacket. I bought a few things to start out once the airline told me they’d work on getting it to me in a couple days. Then, a couple days turned into a few weeks, and eventually the entirety of my journey. I bought a temporary backpack, a few shirts and some underwear, and the essentials such as deodorant and soaps; and what I found was, as long as I ended my day at a hostel, that was enough. I shared a universal electric converter with fellow travelers, I didn’t ever find myself needing a straw that would allow me to drink dirty water, I didn’t even miss my laptop. The longer I went without the safety nets I’d packed for myself, the more pleasurable the experience became. I spent more time truly enjoying others and the moments or places I found myself in. I didn’t become sidetracked as I might have with a laptop in my bunk. Though, I really could have used the puke bags I packed; and on that note, excuse my cliche, but sometimes less really is more. 

Marlene Effiwatt: A Collection of Items Which I Do Not Want but Cannot Bear to Part with So I Keep Them Together In an Orange Cardboard Box

I read an interview on Literary Hub a couple years ago. I do not remember who was being interviewed, it was an artist or a writer, but I remember they said there is a correlation between a decluttered environmental space and a decluttered mental space. Reading that now, I’m like yes of course, but when I first read it, I stood in my old bedroom, naked, looking at my wooden desk which was and had always been covered in candle wax, pennies, and various odd sculptures. I ruthlessly assessed every item I owned, donating bulging Trader Joe’s bags of clothes to shops. Now, I interrogate my physical space whenever I feel out of harmony with myself. Confronting my attachments and loose justifications for keeping things around that I don’t even use, and recognizing how disturbing it is to desperately convince your purging hands that this object makes you feel something, that you need it, that if someone saw it in your room they would think it was cool even if you are largely indifferent towards it, is a sort of high. But the power move within that is over myself. I see it as strengthening my will power, as self governance. But I have a box of items which I may be stuck with into the foreseeable future.

I don’t dance ballet anymore. I was never good at it, I just looked like I would be. I love the red shorts with yellow stripes, but polyester makes my butt look weird because polyester clings, and I don’t have hips to be clung to. The little glass jar is impossible to clean, my fingers can’t fit past the mouth hole, but it is so, so cute in its shape, and glass is a material which I am a sucker for, because it is durable yet doesn’t hold any color on its own, which makes me feel relaxed because color causes me a lot of distress in my life. The paper mached skull is cool, but it could be done better, and if something can be made better, why wouldn’t you want the better version? The runes, white stuffed animal, and the CD titled songs to miss someone by by are all relics of a dead relationship, and while dead, and agreeably so on both ends (now), I get the sense that I’ll endure some sort of karmic punishment if I throw them into a landfill. Ideally I would like to give them all back to him, in a package in the mail, but I don’t know his P.O. box address anymore, and the thought of asking makes me want to jump off the roof of Modern Language, and even if I did ask, it would just be problem shifting; the items would still exist, and still hold every spell cast by loving something ever, but it would turn into his burden, his conundrum, and that also seems like a karmically punishable offense. And I’m not sure what it means that my motivation for not making myself perfectly comfortable by mailing everything I hate back to whoever gave it to me is the fear of cosmic imbalance rather than because it would hurt the feelings of whoever gave me the object. This is the case of the pedometer, and the wax board, the former given to me by my mom (who gets this sick pleasure out of gifting me things she knows I will not like, and then making me watch her cry as I tell her I don’t like it), and the latter which was given to me on my birthday by a friend who I wasn’t close with, and who I haven’t seen or heard from in over ten years. But she told me she made the piece for me. I intuitively knew she had made it around the time of my bday, but not specifically for it, but I accepted the gift with glee because it made me feel special. And the Stewie sticker. Ughhhh. My sister loves Family Guy. No one can explain this phenomenon, but she does, and that exists, and she left the sticker of Stewie rubbing his hands together saying “victory shall be mine” on my wooden desk the summer she moved to Iowa, along with her “Scorpio” necklace, and her favorite teal square clip-on earrings with silver elongated tear drops dangling from the bottom, which she knows, which she knows, I wouldn’t stop staring at, and with that gesture I know true love.

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