How a local artist creates treasure from scraps
Born in the 1950s, a middle child in a middle‐class family, I was taught to “make do with what you have.” Everyday items themselves were made to last in those days, plus the art of repair was a necessary skillset when only a few coins were given for a weekly allowance. I sewed my own clothing, tended a vegetable garden alongside my mom, fished for bullhead and trout with my dad and played outside with dogs, kids, ponies and bugs. With the soul of a crow, I constantly scanned around me for shiny things, collecting shells, stones and lucky pennies and bringing home frogs, praying mantis and June bugs. Science and science fiction fired my imagination. I learned to work on my first car, a Triumph GT6+, replacing the clutch, brakes, spark plugs and distributor. I somehow survived cruising down California State Route 65 in that little red sports car at 120 miles per hour.
Now I’m a green‐eyed grandmother with a loft full of antiques and yard sale finds collected over the decades. The intricacies of these old, handmade objects crafted by those who came before us is so impressive, from the inner workings of an analog wristwatch and the architecture of a radio tube to the simple beauty of a silver spoon handle. The pieces in my artwork are often artifacts of a bygone industrial era — leftovers, survivors, throwaways —but often composed of materials with value today, like silver plate, brass, copper, hardwoods. These durable relics preserve a kind of historic energy. Thinking about their shape and form and forgotten function, I remake these random parts into something fanciful, often using every skillset at my disposal, and they become “one of a kind,” curious, fabled goods, occasionally functional once again — like myself. It’s about memory, connections, and imagination, with a dollop of good humor. As artist Jack Ravi states, “Objects hold the stories we almost forgot.”
It’s true that the supply of these vintage parts is limited, and I have indeed seen a dramatic shift in what’s for sale at thrift stores and junkyards. Lots of plastic. Lots of foreign-made goods. But we can still “make do with what we have.” And lost skillsets are available to a modern audience via YouTube videos for anyone with an interest.
I start an assemblage piece by choosing one or two intriguing items, and other parts are pulled from my stash that fit the theme. Cold connections — wire, zippers, screws, nuts and bolts, epoxy clay — and soldering are the best joins, with glue only as a last resort. I want my pieces to last for a while, too. When finished, the whole must feel cohesive, as if the separate parts were always meant to be together. That might require painting, cutting, bending and other significant altering through destructive means.
My philosophy for the art of assemblage is simple: collect for decades, learn every skill, stock every tool and never throw anything away. I believe in being willing to shred, burn, hammer, tear and melt materials to create new stories and ideas, new cinema.
Also, leave space for the viewer’s own imagination, because “the book must be half open,” as Gerard Gambon tells us. My viewers often say that they appreciate one of my artworks because they recognized the utility of some part of it and felt the spark of a personal memory. A grocery worker admires an old cheese grater. An equestrian loves a Breyer horse. A retired Forest Service supervisor loves a piece with birds, dogs and an antique bellows camera.
I hope my artwork brings sunlight and a smile into the lives of those who see it. I feel incredibly lucky to be here, living peacefully on Lummi Island overlooking the saltwater of Bellingham Bay. I am a “possibilitarian” descended from machinists, seamstresses, gardeners, rapscallions and at least one horse thief.
—By Cathie Cousineau
Cathie Cousineau loves to spend time in her Lummi Island studio creating artworks from my many vintage treasures. Her motivation in creating these various works is exploration, practice, trying out, searching — and is not monetary in nature. If you are interested in something, though, she might part with it.