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I’ve always loved the edges of things.
The parts of stories where the plot slows down and a character gazes out the window. The margins of old books, where readers long ago left tiny notes or doodles. The quiet corners of the woods where you swear something just moved, but you can’t be sure.
That’s where Marginalia began. Not with a grand vision, but with a feeling. A small, stubborn sense that there were worlds tucked into the periphery, waiting patiently to be seen.
I’d been thinking a lot about portals. Not the dramatic, fire-filled kind, but the subtle ones. The moment you step off the path and into a patch of fern-covered shade. The hush that falls when you open a book and the world around you fades a little. That’s the kind of magic I wanted to make with clay.
And so the first piece was born, almost by accident. A small landscape, shaped by hand, textured with time. It didn’t have a plan. Just a feeling: peaceful, curious, a little bit ancient.
Halfway through, I realized something. What if these scenes didn’t just feel like stories? What if they sat on them? What if the sculptures lived right on the backs of books, like little shrines to forgotten tales?
From there, the collection took root.
There’s the House of Two Ways, with a door on each side and a moat between—built for those standing at a crossroads, unsure of which direction to choose. There’s the Crossroads Inn, where travelers might meet, rest, or part ways in the quiet dark. And the Amethyst Tower, standing watch over the invisible, its purple roof catching the light like a whisper of a spell.
Each piece is slow to make. Clay doesn’t rush. It insists you stop and think, just like the work itself. I try to listen as I build. What does this little tower feel like? Who lives here? What kind of weather wraps around it?
Sometimes I sketch first. Sometimes I don’t. The pieces always surprise me.
And maybe that’s the point. Marginalia isn’t about telling a full story. It’s about offering just enough of one that your mind wanders off on its own. A glimpse. A nudge. A path you didn’t notice before.
These sculptures aren’t loud. They’re meant for shelves and windowsills. For quiet corners and reading nooks. For people who like the edges of things, where the softest kind of magic lives.
Thanks for walking into the margins with me.
Until next time,
Elizabeth