Needle felted wool, foam
24" x 24' x 2"
Writing from Michael . . owner of the Kim Novak portrait:
"A white cat crossed our path this morning, dog Sprocket's and mine. It came on ballet pointe through the pitter-splat and drizzle. Sprocket shot to hind legged attention, straining at the leash. I had to remind him that Pyewacket would not approve. The last few mornings when we've left the house, we've been bid a fond adieu, not by some cheesy dish, but by Kim Novak herself, giving off a most Bell Book Candle vibe. Her image came to haunt the hall wall with the same rattle-your-ribcage-and-let-old-Thumper-out as the famous portraits of Laura, Dorian Gray or even Jenny, whose namesake thrust it at me Christmas day, to my socket-shocked delight. It is a picture, not to be too sheepish, that is truly felt. Artist Dale takes what didn't end in a cocked hat and wand waves it into the raised eyebrow of the Bewitched hubby's nemesis, or the lower lip of you-know-how-to-whistle-don't-you Lauren Bacall. Now I'm no salt-shaken, rabbit-footed dunce. I don't put the heebies in my jeebies over the idea that a picture can snatch a soul. I ship no cargo on the boat that claims a needle with some woodoo can web wrap a spirit just like a fly. And I'm not so easily hair-raised (my spooky doo jumped overboard some time ago) as to cotton to the notion that there are ports where those who spin yarn and loom weave are classed with spiders and the Fates. So don't get the idea I'm going all Salem on Mr. Roberts and his craft, but there are times when that movie star stare makes me check my marbles at the door. Then there is Pyewacket, the feline familiar that drapes across her back and has eyes that want to stalk you to the bone dance. Perhaps it is the fact that it is so uncanny real; that you can reach out and stroke it's fur, that makes it seem as though it were admonishing us to watch our butts and show a little respect for the creatures of the night; the rats, racoons, ducks and deer and especially the cats. Now you may rack it up to long, too long in lockdown, but I swear when Sprocket and I return, two sets of eyes watch us shake the wet off coat and fur and patiently wait for stories of dancers in the dark."