The Child Empress of Mars

by C. Jane Washburn, based on The Child Empress of Mars by Theodora Goss in Interfictions 2

15" tall x 12" long Art Doll – Mixed Media: wire, tape, polyclay, semi-precious stones, found objects, fur scraps, silk, acrylics.

This piece will be auctioned off to benefit the Interstitial Arts Foundation at iafauctions.com

Tags: interfictions2auction, interfictions2, interstitialartsfoundation, interstitial, doll, dollcraft, theodoragoss, thechildempressofmars
Uploaded: November 4, 2009
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    IAFAuctions.com is part of the fundraising arm of the Interstitial Arts Foundation, a not–for–profit organization dedicated to the study, support, and promotion of interstitial art.

    IAF Photostream
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    A Taste of Interfictions 2
    • “Trace down the length of your nylon seam
      The breeze from the window fan does nothing to cool the room but ripples Martine's skirt as she adjusts her hose. She is talking to someone on the phone. She says it's her sister. Dave sits on the edge of the bed, smoking, paralyzed by his insurmountable debt and the vision of her cherry-red toenails.”
      From: Nylon Seam by F. Brett Cox
    • “People always get my origin story wrong. I wasn't "born in an explosion," I am the explosion; if I'm the chicken, the bomb was the egg. It's just that no one's ever taken responsibility for laying it. Anything else blows up, anywhere in L.A., and the gangs and factions fall all over each other to take credit, but someone takes out the craft services tent on the set of a minor erotic space opera and no one says a word.”
      From: The 121 by David J. Schwartz
    • “She paid admission. Then they walked the direction all visitors had to go, through the museum and toward doors leading out to the historic village. With its coke machine just inside the entrance, the museum seemed a harmless, well-regulated place, comforting and normal. Yet the discontent he had noticed when his feet hit the gravelly parking lot, out by the split-rail fence, still held on and was with him yet as they walked out the back door.

      He could control it even so: a trifling weight he would shrug off, somewhere, if only he could find the right place.”
      From: Stonefield by Mark Rich
    • “I have never noticed until now the tender cut of your jaw, how the skin scoops inwards towards the throat, a reservoir for rain, or honey, or milk. I have never noticed the way your neck quivers next to the jugular. I have never noticed the way your sleep-sigh takes on a musical pattern, moving along in harmonic thirds, as though somewhere, in some dream, people are singing in chords.”
      From: Four Very True Tales by Kelly Barnhill

    Click here for another excerpt

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