The sad thing about this first guy is not so much that it’s a teddy bear made out of shells…now, that in itself is sad, because teddy bears are by their nature cute and cuddly, and making one out of cold, sharp-edged crunchy things that, when they break, become even sharper is a bit of a cruel joke. No, the sad thing is that I’ve had him sitting for years in my photo slushpile because someone else made a post about him. This means that, in this increasingly harsh and unfair universe, there’s two of these things.

Much about this guy reminds me of a picture collection done by the deeply disturbed. The way his eyes sit in nests of jagged concentric spikes speak volumes, or at least chapters, of A Book of Crafts for the Obsessive-Compulsive. The googly eyes seem a little bit of a cheat, though, as if they really wanted to be made of tinier shells, or little periwinkles leading you ever deeper into the bear’s gaze, coiling tighter and tighter into twin spires of madness. Or some such.

Next guy…not really a “horror,” but I can’t feel that somehow he’s…not like all the other bears. Although he seems intensely eager to come home with you.

Although I guess that depends on how you define “bears.” Certainly, there are a number of entities called “bears” that may wear fetching, and fairly snug, black vests. Though in Austin they tend to wear bright Hawaiian shirts. So, perhaps he is like some of the bears. Certainly, some of the lavender bears. I’m not judging, here.

Though I will judge “sugarloaf.” It seems more “inanimate and prostrate” than “cute and cuddly.” Maybe that’s just me.

Shellbear from the Savers on South Lamar, “Sugarloaf” from the Goodwill near Anderson Mill, Austin

It’s just another day in the shell market. Across the busy square, vendors ply their hollow, unsatisfying trade. This WAS the biggest fishmarket in the world, but when the clams stopped flowing, the market dried up. Now, they sell the empty husks of shrimp, piles of those sharp little crab claws, the ones that aren’t really worth the effort–and, of course, the shells. Piles of shells. Not pretty shells, not exquisite, collectible shells like the noble pen shell, once used to dye the clothes of nobility, or the lovely “Glory of the Seas,” still collectible even after its Dutch Tulip Bubble-like collapse of its reputation. No…just clam shells, cast-offs from dinner…maybe you can boil them to get the ghost of a chowder.

Still, the market’s endless rattle and clink falls silent when she enters the room.

“Won’t you please buy my shells? Spare a few dollars for yesterday’s oyster?”

She’s the queen of the market, delicately moving through the stalls in a dress that uplifts the common clam into a thing of art. Even after she lost her arms in that tragic lobster trap accident, she still kept her spirits up and stayed thematically appropriate.

Go ahead, buy a clam. It’s an investment in the spirit of the shell market. You’re not just buying a shell, you’re…buying something quite complicated, made from them.

Come on! Don’t be shy! It’s a bright, beautiful day, just like you! Turn around, let’s see your smiling face, little kitten!

Ooh. Never mind.

So, what we have here is, well, there’s a certain degree of inspiration. Spotted shell, spotted cat. Brilliant. I can’t see anything wrong with the concept.

Except…except that it calls to mind images of huge cat heads that, independent of their bodies, scuttle around on the ground on crablike legs. When someone brushes them aside they land on their backs, mewing pitifully and rocking from side to side, IF they’re lucky enough to have the extra long tail that reaches the ground. Most aren’t that lucky, end up kicked aside, where they land under the sofa and gather thick balls of dust bunnies, in the vain hope that a fur coat will make them cute enough that they’ll be put back on the display rack.

The weird looking little orange tongue is a nice touch, too. It’s kind of like he’s eating a huge chunk of pumpkin. I’m not sure why someone glued a spider to the poor little thing’s face, though, it didn’t deserve that.

Actually, yes it did. Cowries are horrible little creatures. They probably mug other smaller snails, kick them over, take their lunch money, write rude messages on their shells.

Number two on the Minimal Effort Kitten Parade, and just in time for the holidays–another refugee from Planet Space Cat, where tiny catlings with vast, all-knowing blue eyes STARE INTO YOUR SOUL and EAT YOUR SOULMICE. This one’s a little more sinister-looking than its more benevolent, all-seeing cousin. This one…this one has plans.

Okay, maybe these plans involve finding some glowing green milk to slowly drink, yawn a tritium yawn, and curling up in a small black ball with two tiny blue moons peering over its tail, but they’re calculating moons that are counting the moments until you turn your back. Then, then…the kitten will probably go to sleep. Really, it’s a kitten, even the most long-term plans they have don’t extend past their whiskers.

Shell Kitten found at Savers on Burnet near 2222, Black Kitten with Blue Eyes…ah…I forget. Its mind control powers are terrifying.

Shell art is a dominant thread in the world of Thrift Horror. We do not know what drives elderly craftsmiths and pre-schoolers, jaded high schoolers and tourist trap hucksters, to glue pipe cleaners and cowries together and call it art. But we thank them for their contributions. Unfortunately, or perhaps magically, shell art is “done.” It’s over, there is no more shell art. We have had a shell art epiphany, we have seen the glory of shell art and it is, truly, glorious.

It is not, technically, a “horror.” It is pure magic.

Oh, hey, you can see my pants in this picture. I’m glad I didn’t wet myself then, that’s a small favor. On entering the glorious gates of the Salvation Army, it was clear that this was no ordinary thrift shop. It had become a shell art museum. The front corner display–coffee tables entirely encrusted in shells, mirrors studded with starfish, mer-madonnas. Amazing! And the shellcraft? Sublime!

It would take an entire school district of disenfranchised youth, all the street vendors in Port Aransas, and a couple of senior centers on the side, working overtime for a year to create these shell masterpieces. Swirls, ornaments, flowers, all of them crazily baroque. Truly, we had come home.

Do you like my hair? It’s cowrie. The vase is very small snails. Now, normally, you’d expect a few well-placed clam shells, but no, they chafe so. Take a photograph of the sarong, it’ll last longer, because it will probably shatter when I sit down. That, also, will chafe.

I think I may have started crying here, it was THAT GOOD. the lotus blossom made of little clams? I had to go outside for a cigarette. But it got better. No, really!

I had to move on, even though I just wanted to put some small votive offerings at the foot of Our Lady of Shell Hair and devote my life to her service. This was like shell Nirvana, but it had to end. Except…it didn’t. The glass display cases greeted me with INFINITELY RECEEDING SHELL BABES.

You may think that these are identical, but each one is a precious, precious flower. Made of shells. And they are utterly unashamed of their nudity, because they know…you’re looking at their shell wigs.

And just so you know, this isn’t a shallow depiction of naked, shell-wrapped flesh. This is a scene drawn straight from domestic life, where shell-wrapped servants would draw slightly crunchy baths for the lady of the house. “Bring me a loofah. It, too, should be made out of shells. The exfoliation shall be…decadent.”

I’m not really sure what’s going on here, the little eye-like shells around her skirt kind of make her look like a villian from “The Little Mermaid.” I’m not really sure what she’s holding in her hands–some sort of bathmat? A roll of fabric? It’s not going to be any more comfortable than anything else in this display, I’m pretty sure of that.

The story, as I understand it–and for once I had to break my vow of keeping a low profile and asking for permission, there was just too much to take pictures on the sly today!–is that a small business went under, or the owner retired, and they donated their vast stock of shelly wonderment to the Salvation Army. I really think they should have just opened some strange museum or something. It would have been…amazing. And apparently there was more in their back room? Good lord. The sea is bounteous indeed.

I know, I’m just posting pictures of things with shells on them, I really don’t have anything to say today. This was just so AMAZING I wanted to share with my friends :) If you’re in North Austin, this is the Salvation Army on 1325 just north of Round Rock. It’s absolutely worth the visit!

Next time, back to your usually scheduled crapola :)

“Captain, the crew’s talking among themselves, they say that no good’ll come from this voyage. They’re saying the ship’s a’cursed.”

“Belay that kind of prattle. The HMS Conchiolin is the prettiest ship on these eastern seas. T’ain’t no ship as charming as she. Why the day she first set sailed, they said, ‘That’s a right lovely boat there.’”

“Nossir, they said, ‘Damn it all, get the ropes and a team of horses, she’s sunk straight to the bottom of the harbor.’ Then, begging your pardon, they said some unkind things about your mother, may she rest in peace.”

“May she rest in peace.”

“Yessir. Mostly, they said there were reasons that no god-fearing man would build a ship out of shells, sir. Even really big ones.”

“So I’ve heard. From the mob, from the broadsheets, even from the flower girls. Hells, the parrot’s saying it now. But there’s more to sailing than a stout hull, good sails, a functional rudder, and a deck.”

“No there aren’t, sir.”

“I say there are. Is, rather. There’s the look of the thing. The spirit of the thing.”

“If the spirit’s made of clams, I’d say we’re golden!”

“Stout fellow. We set sail at noon. Once we’ve finished dredging out the crew’s cabin.”

“Nossir. Ain’t got one of them, neither.”

“Splendid! Then we sail at 10:30, after breakfast.”

“Sounds good. I’ll warn the men.”

Next to New Shop, near 2222 and Burnet, Austin

What? Another Christmas Clown? Oh, yes! Nothing goes with Christmas like clowns! Clowns and Christmas are like…spaetzle and Easter, or slide trombones and Arbor Day. Inseparable!

Have pity on this little guy. Girl. Ovoid. Life’s not been kind to it. His feet are little flat pancakey flippers, barely fit to keep it from falling forward onto its face (no doubt with a whimsical honking sound.) Let it wag its little pompom arms in tiny, futile circles, it’s still guaranteed a faceplant. (Honk!)

Still, it’s come to a sort of cheerful reconciliation. If I’m going to topple forward, let it be with a big, big smile. If I’m going to fall backward, let me swing back with a graceful arch, let tiny cotton puffs swat me in the face, I’ll still be smiling. Because basically my head is made out of styrofoam. I’m okay with pretty much anything.

Over the four or five years of Thrift Horror’s tragic existence, there’ve been two great constants. Clowns and shell art. Thank god, we can get both of these things over at once.

Yes! A grinning abomination of pipe cleaners, fluffballs, and good old American craftsmanship! Even more horrifying, I’ve seen more than one of these–this little critter’s popped up on the Thrift Horror livejournal community before. I can only assume that some magazine somewhere said “Here’s how you make a whimsical–” no, no, it was probably fanciful. “Here’s how you make a fanciful friend out of a little glue, a few shells, and a lot of love!”

Not quite enough love to shore up the meaty flap of the poor thing’s neck, I guess the pipe cleaners shifted during shipment. I don’t doubt for an instant that this was the best possible use for that particular clown head. After six long years of being sealed in plastic wrap, watching sadly as people bought kraftstix, bead looms, floss…finally, it was saved from the discount bin, and shoved onto a conch. That’s crafts for you. Crafts can be harsh.

Bobbo the Christmas Clown from Texas Thrift on I35 near 51st, Shell Clown from Salvation Army near 620 and 183, Austin.

Avast, ye great shell-faced dogs, steer the ship leeward, and smartly now! Thar be cowries on them thar shores!

Oh gods, now I’m going to have nightmares about ghastly pirates with bleeding serrated mouths, floating around on a half a clam like a warped alternate dimension’s version of Botticelli’s Birth of Venus.But with skull-faced shell headed radish-like sailors necrotizing periodontitis

Okay, seriously Key West, WTF? I hope, hope HOPE HOPE, that this was some kid’s pet project. Shell art is an impressively tragic medium, but this brings it to an impossible nadir, and I do not know if I’ll be able to recover my faith in late 60s handicraft. You’ve ruined me for cowries forever, Key West. Mary, mother of God.

There is the smallest chance that this is actually representational art.

Someone who’s been to Key West tell me–do horrid shell-demons putter around the bay in a half-conch, like witches riding in an eggshell, along the shoals of massive spiralling pillars of shell-encrusted reef? DO THEY? And when they do, do they take their official, licensed Key West oars?

In their defense, they might be trying to get away from the faceless mu-mu-demon behind them, paddling as fast as their tiny little univalve mollusk carapaces can carry them. Row! Row faster! It’s got a fruity beverage and it wants our faces!

Key West is a frightening place :(