Trinkets, Bones, & One Black Cat

November is break month at the gallery this year because I am going to try to get our house and family ready for the holiday season - not because I am a crazy holiday person but because once December 1st hits, I want to chill out and not worry about anything. But I digress…

I don’t typically decorate much for Halloween but this year I took advantage of the gallery spaces to place with scale, and to put some of the odd little trinkets and treasures my family makes for each other and collects on display. Trinkets, Bones, & One Black Cat was installed in the galleries for just one week, closing on October 31, 2021.

NQ Big Gallery - "Untitled Unknown" by Jack Runnerstrom

Untitled Unknown Comprises five ink drawings by the artist Jack Runnerstrom. His “educated doodles” are inspired by graffiti art and graphic novels, and illustrate his humorous musings about life.

Due to his habit of constantly having a pencil and paper nearby, at the age of 14 he has amassed an impressive collection of drawings.

Introducing the NQ Big Gallery!

I recently bought a bunch of little 1/2” plastic railroad people on a whim, and I of course use them in the most logical manner possible - I created a monumental art gallery for them! While this gallery box is only about 6 cubic inches, these little people make it feel like a huge, industrial space, art gallery. It will be fun to see how these teeny people shift how art is viewed.

The art shows installed in the Big Gallery will embrace a more ephemeral aesthetic and be on view for shorter amounts of time, but I am excited for a new way of working. I believe that through both gallery formats I will be able to share more art with a greater audience.

For the month of August, the Nicholas Quarry dollhouse gallery is part of my solo exhibition at the Langdon Divers Community Gallery in the Fond du Lac Public Library. I am enjoying having a second gallery to play with while the dollhouse is on the road.

Little Spaces

by Emily Runnerstrom, June 17 - July 10

Little Spaces is an exploration of some of my earliest childhood memories. As I made an effort to recall these memories, many came back in flashes of vivid color and emotions. I had to work for the narrative, and needed confirmation by family members who were in a better position to inform me of the truth, and edit my recollections accordingly.

Interestingly most of these memories occur in small spaces of comfort or amusement, a good match for the small space of my childhood dollhouse. It was built for me by my dad when I was three years old. This toy holds countless memories of playtime, and is now given the chance to explore the potential of alternative art spaces. As a nod to its former purpose and glory, I have included some of the original furnishings in each of the installations. Even touching them brings about indescribable memories to which I can’t give a voice. I feel them deeply in my gut, but yet they are always just out of my reach.

SpruceOne of the first play spaces I remember was underneath a giant blue spruce tree that grew behind our garage. The lowest boughs dipped to touch the ground and there was a hidden space only tall enough for children to fit underneath. Using pilfered household items and an extra lawn chair, I created an existence similar to that in one of my favorite stories, The Boxcar Children. In this space I was a pioneer and an adventurer in an endless world that existed safely in my backyard.

Spruce

One of the first play spaces I remember was underneath a giant blue spruce tree that grew behind our garage. The lowest boughs dipped to touch the ground and there was a hidden space only tall enough for children to fit underneath. Using pilfered household items and an extra lawn chair, I created an existence similar to that in one of my favorite stories, The Boxcar Children. In this space I was a pioneer and an adventurer in an endless world that existed safely in my backyard.

14 StingsI was in kindergarten and as I walked the three blocks home from school one afternoon, I stepped with one foot on the sidewalk and the other in a shallow ditch that ran between the sidewalk and a chain link fence that separated the sidewalk from the junior high athletic fields. One foot up high. One foot down low. One foot up high. One foot down low. One foot up high.The next low step landed me right into a hornets’ nest that was tucked neatly in that small ditch. I panicked and as I tried to get the hornets that were swarming off my legs, I pushed my red cable knit kneesocks down. I managed then to pull my socks back up, trapping several hornets underneath. I ran the final half a block home to find the door locked and my mother gone. She was worried about why I was late and had walked a different route to the school in order to find me. Coming home she found me screaming on the front stoop. She counted 14 stings when she peeled back my socks with the trapped hornets. Into an epsom salt bath went I, and into our family lore went this story.This is the narrative I share when speaking of this event, but it occurred to me as an adult that I actually remember very little of it. I know the events, but only with the help of my parents. What I remember are my up and down steps, my red cable knit knee socks, and the blue walls that surrounded our bathtub as I soaked in that healing bath of crystals. I don’t even remember the pain.

14 Stings

I was in kindergarten and as I walked the three blocks home from school one afternoon, I stepped with one foot on the sidewalk and the other in a shallow ditch that ran between the sidewalk and a chain link fence that separated the sidewalk from the junior high athletic fields. 

One foot up high. One foot down low. One foot up high. One foot down low. One foot up high.

The next low step landed me right into a hornets’ nest that was tucked neatly in that small ditch. I panicked and as I tried to get the hornets that were swarming off my legs, I pushed my red cable knit kneesocks down. I managed then to pull my socks back up, trapping several hornets underneath. I ran the final half a block home to find the door locked and my mother gone. She was worried about why I was late and had walked a different route to the school in order to find me. Coming home she found me screaming on the front stoop. She counted 14 stings when she peeled back my socks with the trapped hornets. Into an epsom salt bath went I, and into our family lore went this story.

This is the narrative I share when speaking of this event, but it occurred to me as an adult that I actually remember very little of it. I know the events, but only with the help of my parents. What I remember are my up and down steps, my red cable knit knee socks, and the blue walls that surrounded our bathtub as I soaked in that healing bath of crystals. I don’t even remember the pain.

Pink QuiltMany of my childhood memories are wrapped in homemade clothing and blankets. I wore homemade, simple smocked sundresses each summer, my grandmother made all three of us kids brightly knitted sweaters with hoods and kangaroo pockets for the winter, halloween costumes were never store bought, and my bright pink patchwork quilt that I wrapped around my little body when I slept was also stitched by my mother. Before my sister was born, I had a little room of my own. I remember one very vivid dream I woke up from where I still saw a pink dressed witch peeking out of my closet. Then I was called to come have breakfast and she disappeared. I remember everything in my little room being pink, but it might just be that when the light shone through my window, the pink of my quilt was reflected onto the walls. It really was extraordinarily pink. My sister was born when I was three and our little house (and my little bedroom) on Quarry Lane was now too small and we moved. My sister’s and my bedroom in the new house was bigger, too big to capture the pink light off my quilt.

Pink Quilt

Many of my childhood memories are wrapped in homemade clothing and blankets. I wore homemade, simple smocked sundresses each summer, my grandmother made all three of us kids brightly knitted sweaters with hoods and kangaroo pockets for the winter, halloween costumes were never store bought, and my bright pink patchwork quilt that I wrapped around my little body when I slept was also stitched by my mother. 

Before my sister was born, I had a little room of my own. I remember one very vivid dream I woke up from where I still saw a pink dressed witch peeking out of my closet. Then I was called to come have breakfast and she disappeared. I remember everything in my little room being pink, but it might just be that when the light shone through my window, the pink of my quilt was reflected onto the walls. It really was extraordinarily pink. 

My sister was born when I was three and our little house (and my little bedroom) on Quarry Lane was now too small and we moved. My sister’s and my bedroom in the new house was bigger, too big to capture the pink light off my quilt.

IMG_8484.jpeg
Car GamesThis artwork is the most literal in this collection. My grandparents had given our family their old car, an olive green 1973 Toyota Corolla. A good little car, my brother, sister, and I fit snugly in the back seat. A good little car, it had a strong engine that was sound and reliable. A good little car, but an old little car, with a rust hole in the floor in the back that we three would drop things through and then race to look out the rear window to watch them disappear down the road. A lot of giggling happened in the backseat of that little car. I wonder if my parents knew why.When this show is complete, the road will be filled in with drawings of the dropped objects and folded up to become pages in the car shaped book.

Car Games

This artwork is the most literal in this collection. My grandparents had given our family their old car, an olive green 1973 Toyota Corolla. A good little car, my brother, sister, and I fit snugly in the back seat. A good little car, it had a strong engine that was sound and reliable. A good little car, but an old little car, with a rust hole in the floor in the back that we three would drop things through and then race to look out the rear window to watch them disappear down the road. 

A lot of giggling happened in the backseat of that little car. I wonder if my parents knew why.

When this show is complete, the road will be filled in with drawings of the dropped objects and folded up to become pages in the car shaped book.

Who is Nicholas Quarry?

When thinking of what to name this gallery experiment, I consulted my favorite reference book - the thesaurus. Looking for a good alternative word for small/tiny/miniature turned out to be a more difficult task than I had expected. So many words meaning small have a negative feeling , and do not express the oversized joy that exists miniature things.

The other challenge I faced when naming the gallery is how the memories and nostalgia of my childhood are linked inextricably to this toy that my dad made for me when I was three years old. How can I name it anything that doesn’t do justice to this object that is so important to me? How can I illustrate the grand ideas I hope this gallery will house in a name?

Like so many other projects, I decided to approach naming this space as a game. Surfing the internet, one can find formulas for finding you fairy name, your pirate name, your super hero name, and so many other aliases to giggle over. My formula was to used the first name of the person who gave me this timeless gift and the street name where I received it. Seeing as it was a gift from St. Nick and I lived on Quarry Lane as a small child, the persona of Nicholas Quarry was born. I like the potential story telling opportunities that creating a character offers. Also, there is a a solid practice of naming museums housed in former homes after their benefactors.

Small art can be powerful. Artistry expressed in miniature form can be inspiring. Wrapped in the familiar form of a dollhouse imbued with memories and nostalgia, these ideas come together to create tremendous potential for creativity. Even thought is a small space, I hope the Nicholas Quarry Gallery will offer true and meaningful art experiences to those who see it.

62B9E8F3-0216-4DA5-B2AB-7992BC885680.JPG

When my dad was building this on our basement, I would talk to him through the laundry chute, and he would talk back in the character of the elves who were helping Santa. I would ask, “How are you elves doing down there?” and he would answer, using an appropriate elvish voice. I never went downstairs to investigate Santa’s Quarry Lane workshop. I don’t remember our conversations but I do remember the thrill that Christmas morning when I finally learned what Santa’s helpers had made especially for me, just a few steps away in our basement.

06ABC1BA-0DEC-40AD-B8D6-65F9BC9F9A5D.JPG

Some of the dollhouse furnishings that were left in the dollhouse. Some were store bought, some were made by both my parents, all were (and are still) treasured.