Sometimes I find odd little items and put them in snow globes to make a tiny scene, and sometimes I want to sculpt something specific I’ve imagined. I was working on shaping a small hand, reaching upward, and could not get the index and middle finger to stay the way I wanted. Finally, exasperated, I put the clay piece down.

Allright. I didn’t “put it down” — I sort of tossed it toward the foil covered table where I was working.

And in one of those moments of serendipity, the fingers crossed themselves. Crossed fingers were unexpected, and not the emotion I was going for, but there they were, waiting in suspense. Do you remember when you kept a secret by saying, “Cross my heart and hope to die?”  Or, when you crossed your fingers behind your back and it meant you weren’t really telling the truth, or the whole truth? Or perhaps, you waited for news and closed your eyes and crossed your fingers, wishing it would be good. Please, please, please!

I love when my artwork is a mystery to me. It’s not calculated; it leads its own life of ambiguity. The hand said nothing. Is this a promise to be kept, or a promise made with questionable intentions?

A few weeks prior, I had found a tiny pair of hammered metal earrings in the shape of hearts. I pulled one apart and placed it in the gentle, eager hand, and folded the ring finger to hold it in place. Now the meaning was clearer: Cross my heart. The Promise.

The Promise. One of a Kind snow globe with sculpted hand, re-purposed antique jewelry and shimmering gold dust in liquid.