These stained glass amulets are disruptive to orthodoxies of fashion. They are gaudy, gritty and tarnished avoiding the dainty feebleness and decadent preciousness of most jewelry; they are made with strange detritus: ashes, broken mirrors and smashed teacups; they confound the traditional religiosity of stained glass with occultism and irreverence. Through wearability they transform the art experience into something intimate and mobile.
“...space does not exist for intimate objects.” Robert Morris, Notes on Sculpture
The Mabbot street entrance of nighttown, before which stretches an uncobbled transiding set with skeleton tracks, red and green will-o'-the-wisps and danger signals. Rows of flimsy houses with gaping doors. Rare lamps with faint rainbow fans. Round Rabaiotti's halted ice gondola stunted men and women squabble. They grab wafers between which are wedged lumps of coal and copper snow. Sucking, they scatter slowly.
Odd! Molly drawing on the frosted carriagepane at Kingstown. What's that like? (Gaudy dollwomen loll in the lighted doorways, in window embrasures, smoking birdseye cigarettes. The odour of the sicksweet weed floats towards him in slow round ovalling wreaths.)
James Joyce, 'Ulysses'