Copyright: My Two Cents

One of my favorite cases in law school involved the "Dead Dog" tee: the eponymous cafe's iconic "Black Dog" turned upside down.  You know, dead.  They sued, and Marblehead's own U.S. District Chief Judge Joseph Tauro dismissed the case.  Not only does he hail from my hometown, Judge Tauro (who also ruled, in 2010, that the federal ban on equal marriage was unconstitutional) has a sense of humor!  He wrote a little poem about "black dogs, dead dogs and dead hogs," using it to illustrate the legally salient point: people weren't apt to confuse "Dead Dog" with "Black Dog."  Parodies are legal.

The issue is one of intent: are you trying, in essence, to benefit from someone else's hard work?  The Black Dog Cafe became famous through its owners' hard work (and, like Marblehead's Stowaway Sweets, through some minor presidential intervention).  Admire them all you want, but you can't--legally, anyway--ride on their coattails.  Which, really, is where the legal gray area lies and the attempts to define "parody" begin.  Peter Hall wasn't trying to steal market share from the Black Dog Tavern; his tees were geared toward a different market entirely.  And as someone who lives in a tourist trap, myself, trust me: there's plenty of us who'd like some "anti-tourist" memorabilia.

But to the extent that parody is legal, outright imitation most certainly is not.  Parody is only legal to the extent that it's obviously not imitation.  Once you've ranged out of the patently absurd and into the dark forest of "if"--where you're even courting the possibility that someone could mistake your work for theirs--you're breaking the law.  Depending on what, exactly, you're doing you could be charged with a variety of civil penalties--and crimes.  If you're making use of someone else's work (or name, or reputation) for financial gain, then, depending on the facts of the case and your particular jurisdiction, it could be fraud.  And fraud, believe me, is very serious.

I was really disappointed to see that Brae, an artisan and blogger I admire greatly, is suffering from an apparently really egregious case of plagiarism.  Whoever said "imitation is the highest form of flattery" never got ripped off.  There's nothing flattering about discovering that someone's stolen your work.  It's a violation.

I've dealt with my own copyright issues; I mention one miniatures-related experience in my "FAQ" section and, recently, someone I thought was my friend sold some revealing pictures of me.  They were from my wedding album (which covered everything from "getting ready" to "finally leaving"), digital files she had access to because, at the time, I thought she'd earned my trust.  Particularly sad was the fact that the unsuspecting third party thought they were purchasing legally licensed ad copy.  Had we chosen to make more of an issue of it than we did (I was just happy to see the photographs gone), they--despite their ignorance--might have been in some trouble.

It's not cool to steal from people.  Even if nobody can prove anything, even if you skate off, scott free, into the sunset, you're still a loser.  Reputation is everything.  I'm all for forgiving and forgetting, but I saw some things in law school that changed my opinion of certain people forever.  I might get a beer with them, but I'd never risk recommending them to a potential client.

Anyway, I'm getting off my soapbox now.  As you might have guessed, the fact that I talk for a living isn't always a good thing.  But anyway, since this does touch directly on what I do all day--and, gods forbid, by way of stating the obvious this is not legal advice--I really felt like I had to say something.  I try (and fail) not to editorialize overmuch, but dishonesty is one of those things that gets me really angry.  And I can hardly complain about the fact that it happens if I don't speak out against it once in awhile, now can I?

I SPLURGED!

I really did.  My credit card will never forgive me.  Heh.

We've been having a bit of a beastly time in our neck of the woods and, I suppose, I like retail therapy as much as the next girl.  My wonderful, entirely too supportive husband encouraged me to go ahead and buy the one thing I really wanted (that can be purchased): real marble tile for the Haunted Beacon Hill.  And, well, that led to him pointing out that, really, I shouldn't compromise my vision for the house by using less-than-desired cladding materials.  You can see where this is going.  Pretty soon, I'd bought out the entire store!

I can't say that it made this morning's funeral any less wretched, but it has given me warm and fuzzy fantasies about how I'll distract myself in the upcoming weeks.  

The tile, while ludicrously expensive, is really lovely.  It's pink!  Richard Stacey's entire line, I've recently discovered, is available for sale on eBay.  I don't normally care for eBay, but for some things I'll make the sacrifice.  This is particularly good, because it's not static; you can see, in real time, what sorts of colors of marble they're offering.  I also (hey, why ruin a good thing?) bought some deeply veined gray marble for the conservatory.  I'd originally been planning on going in a completely different direction, but this project has--appropriately for a haunted house, I suppose--taken on a life of its own.

In other news, I'm coming along with the carvings, and should have something to show for myself in that department soon.  I'm really excited to write about it, and show you what I've done.  What's holding me back right now, more than anything, is the mail--waiting for things to arrive!  The time I have (I took a couple of mental health days), the materials...

Also, too, I've been pondering the interior window trim and have realized, in doing that, that having any sort of sense of what I want necessitates having an indoor design plan.  The only room about which I have absolutely no ideas--or no good ideas, I should modify--is the dining room.  Normally I'm mad for dining rooms; I don't know what it is, this time.

On a final note, my son behaved really, really well today.  Jim and I were commenting that if only he were old enough, we'd take him out for an ice cream and presents.  He put up with quite a bit--strange, looming people not the least of which--and handled himself wonderfully.  Now, of course, everyone thinks we have the perfect baby!  Which, of course, we do.

Back at home, with Teddy.

I'm still sort of struggling along with the catacombs...

I hope everyone else's week has ended on a high note.

The Hobby Lobby Petition

One of the great things about miniatures, as a hobby, is that it's an escape from the real world--and a chance to create your own, better world.  Nobody wants a political rant.  And, while I'm certainly not trying to keep my own views a secret, I also don't think it's appropriate to preach at people.  We're all different, we all have different beliefs, and diversity is a wonderful thing.  The last thing I would ever want is for someone to feel like they can't be my friend, because we disagree.

But, for informational purposes only, sometimes it's good to share.  And some of you might not know about this petition.  I, personally, like to know what stores, distributors, and manufacturers support so that I can make my purchases accordingly.

Thoughts?

They Used To Call Me Reggie

Okay, so this totally has nothing to do with miniatures at all.  But one of the comments reminded me of my childhood.  My grandmother was a wonderful woman but--like me--she had problems coming up with people's (and things') names.  So she'd call me, and I wouldn't realize she was calling me, because she'd call me one name after another--Eddie (my grandfather), Charlie (my cousin), Lachie (my great aunt).

And when she was really, really aggravated she'd yell "REGGIE!!!"

Reggie was my dog.

Like most terriers, he had a very well-developed sense of propriety.  After my parents took over my grandparent's house (we were all still living together so this was a formality), my dad decided that it was time to remove the sticker on the stove.  You know, the price sticker.  That had been there since 1945.  

Well, Reggie trotted into the kitchen, saw the discolored spot where the sticker used to be, and started barking.  And barking.  My dad put him out of the kitchen and shut the door, but Reggie hurled himself against it so hard that we were worried he'd hurt himself.  So we let him back in...and he went right back to the stove, positioned himself in front of it, and started to bark.  Finally, my dad took us to the movies.

He couldn't stand it anymore.

When we came back, there was poor Reggie, barking at the sticker.  Only, having long since lost his voice, his barks came out more like gasps.  My dad, resigned and defeated, fished the sticker out of the trash and put it back onto the stove.  Reggie wagged his little stump of a tail and trotted off.

What You May Not Know

I've been really gratified by the nice comments I've received on this blog, and, in general, with the kind, generous, thoughtful and talented people I've met while roaming around the interwebz.  You've all been far, far nicer than I deserve!  In particular, recently, one tutorial of mine has gotten a little bit of notice: How To Make A Really Authentic Dollhouse Miniature Thatched Roof.  And I would like you all to know that, initially, I got so much negative feedback that I almost took it down entirely.

I remember back when I was 15, I was so ridiculously proud of myself because I was exhibiting a painting in my first real (as real as it's apt to get when you're 15) art show.  Sure, I was all pompous and self important about it but, underneath it all, I was just so excited.  A local artist who'd had some modest success came over to me and told me that I shouldn't sell my piece; I should keep it as a souvenir of that time in my life when I thought I had it in me to become a professional artist.  I could look back on it, he said, and laugh at how deluded I'd been.

Yeah, well.  Happiness is the best revenge, right?  It wasn't until years later that I realized, wow, for him--for a grown man--to be talking to a kid that way, he must have some really serious issues of his own.

After I first wrote this tutorial, which was initially created for a miniatures magazine, I received quite a long email from a comparatively well known miniaturist.  He absolutely lambasted me, going into--in gruesome detail--everything that was wrong with my technique.  Principally, he seemed very worried that this wasn't how real thatched roofs were made.  To which my response was kind of like, um, yeah, very little about dollhouses resembles real life building.  The walls of my house aren't made of MDF, either.

But, basically, he wanted to make very sure that I understood what a rotten miniaturist I was, and requested that I withdraw my article from publication lest I lead other miniaturists astray.  He then went on to, rather tiresomely--and predictably--extoll the virtues of his own carefully honed technique.  Which, he assured me, was far superior and I'd serve myself better by coping him rather than coming up with ridiculous, bad plans of my own.

The then-editor of the magazine informed me--having also been aware of the article's apparent deficiencies--that I shouldn't feel bad, their magazine published how-to articles of all types, even those more suited to remedial miniaturists.

Luckily, I have a healthy artist's ego!

Listen, I'm no one's motivational speaker--I usually offend people when I try--but the moral of this story is, it's YOUR project, YOUR hobby, YOUR investment, and YOUR imagination.  Do what you want.  Some people may not like it, but some people don't like much of anything and they're not living your life, anyway.

Model Cars That Should Exist

Spending quite a bit of money I don't really have to spend, I (with my husband's encouragement) made up for a truly horrible day by purchasing a few model kits.  I already have a 1:16 Phantom II in my closet (along with my Franklin Mint dolls--tell no one), just waiting to be put together.  And, well, the 1:12 Datsun was calling my name.  I think it'd be an awesome addition to my Horrible Rural Shack.

Which brings me to my first question: why are 1:12 scale models quite so expensive?  I mean, sure, they're larger so they'll cost more...but hundreds of dollars for a box of extruded plastic?  Really?

Second, has anyone else used 1:14 or 1:16 scale cars (or bikes, or trucks, or whatever) in their scenes?  Has it worked?

And, finally, on a really mostly unrelated note, there should be better (or existing at all) kits of the following cars:

1. Tucker Torpedo
2. Stanley K Raceabout
3. Delahaye Cabriolet (the 135 would be OK, too)
4. Bugatti Type 57SC Atlantic (or the 735 B)
5. Daimler-Maybach 1889 "Steel Wheel"
6. Phantom Corsair
7. Edsel Corsair (an ad running in "Life" proclaimed that "the Edsel is here to stay!")
8. Jaguar XK120
9. Stutz Bearcat (Mr. Burns owns one, as do Dirk Pitt and several of Anne Rice's characters)
10. 1958 Plymouth Fury
11. 1936 Ford Siebert combination ambulance/hearse (um...great)

Where's Everyone From?

I've written a couple of climate and location-related posts, recently, and it got me thinking: where's everyone else from?  And anything else you'd like to share about yourself?  Obviously, you don't have to share anything, but I thought it might be interesting...

My vacation project...

Getting the rings apart and back together again was really hard...

We found a very large caterpillar.

Metallic "ruby" turned out to be My Little Pony purple, so I repainted it with "insignia red."

"Easy Off" oven cleaner really does remove enamel paint, but the fumes will knock you out.  I had to use a respirator...and even after repainting, I still wasn't happy with the finish I got from the Floquil.  Hence it becoming an "aged" stove.

Some old, gross pots and pans, either for my Haunted House or, potentially, for my Hillbilly Shack.  Or I could make another (similar or slightly different) set, one for each.  Thoughts?

Cast iron pans, one new, one "old."

So enough about me...

PS: If anyone wants to know how I did the cookware, let me know and I'll make a tutorial.

In Search of Corrugated Roofing

If things go as we hope--and that's kind of a big "if" right now--then we'll be in the right location, but in a relatively small space.  Which certainly isn't the end of the world, not in any circumstances and certainly not in ours, because we're talking temporary lodging.  It's difficult, moving.  But, while we (hopefully) build our house, we've found a place that'd be perfect to rent.  We're waiting to hear back on that as I write.

I don't think we'll be putting our old house on the market until we've at least got a pretty good bead on what's happening with the new one and, preferably, not until we're actually ready to move.  Our old house is, um, nowhere near our current location and, for a variety of reasons, we want and need to stay where we are.

So I was thinking, OK, assuming things go our way, I'll have some space--there's a lovely upstairs bedroom that'd make a perfect craft room--but not enough for everything I'd like to work on.  Certainly it'd be a tight fit for two full-sized dollhouses (although I may try anyway).  I was thinking I'd bring up either the not-Lincoln or the Haunted House, and something else small.  For awhile now, I've wanted to make a Maine-style shack in miniature.  It seems like it'd be a really fun project--or, at least, certainly a personality-filled one!

I've been driving around, taking pictures for inspiration.

Now, obviously, not all of Maine looks like this.  Some of it looks much worse!  Heh.  Don't worry, our generally, um, creative approach to architecture is a subject of nearly endless humor among Mainers.  And, of course, many of the houses--here and all across the state--are simply beautiful.  Naturally, there aren't too many of each as we're thankfully still pretty rural.  I also took some (in my humble opinion, naturally) wonderful pictures of farms, fields, etc etc etc but those aren't so interesting.  Unless, of course, you happen to dig pictures of sheep.

I have a little Greenleaf kit I'll be bashing--and if anyone's interested, I'll post more of my inspiration pictures when I'm a little further along--and a general idea of how I'll finish it.  But what I don't have is corrugated roofing.  I bought some from Oakridge Hobbies, a delightful establishment I patronize frequently.  This stuff purported to be 1:12 scale.  I was excited for it to arrive and then...it was HUGE!  HUGE!  Literally, it would've looked normal on a full-sized house.  There are, of course, hundreds of other sizes of corrugated roofing--for our model train-making friends--but the descriptions of size, etc are, at least to me, almost nonsensical.  

So what now?  It's not exactly economically feasible to buy one sheet of each size, hoping for the best.  Although, at this rate, I may have to...

What I've Learned From My Mistakes

Don't spray paint in the rain.  Or in the almost-rain.  Or in 99% humidity.  Your metallics will be dull and blotchy, your stoves will fog over.  Although, as we've seen, sometimes mistakes are a blessing in disguise.  In fact, I'm pretty sure this is true in almost every area of life...

The same day I did the blue cook stove, I also sprayed some copper pots.  Which, well, came out looking like something one of my neighbors might dig up out of his root cellar and sell the tourists as an "antique."  So with a little creative craft paint ("Americana" brand craft paint in burnt sienna and lamp black), I went with the "old and gross" theme.

USE MULTIPLE FINE COATS!!!  I thought I already knew this advice.  I mean, duh.  Most of us have been at this for years, and "fine coats" seems like really Mickey Mouse advice.  DO NOT BE FOOLED.  When it comes to spray enamels, flat colors are very forgiving.  Gloss colors are not.  And, I've discovered, the lighter the color, the worse the coverage.  My first few tries with the Testors light ivory were disasters; my paint came out gloppy, or obscured the detail.  I couldn't figure out what I was doing wrong.  Then, after wasting about 20 bucks worth of paint, talking it over with some of my hobbyist friends, and visiting a hobby forum, I learned the following rules:

1.  Shake the can for at least 5 minutes.  I'm not kidding.  Shake that baby like there's no tomorrow, then shake it some more.  And start with a new can.  If you've got a can that's, like, half gone and you haven't been mixing things up, well, um, it won't ever mix properly.
2. MIST COATS, dude.  This shouldn't take you two coats, it should take you more like ten.  The finer and more frequent the coats, the happier you'll be with the results.
3. DO NOT SPRAY ON HUMID DAYS.

Face it, sometimes you just need to use spray paint.  Like, take the pot belly stove, for example.  The sprayed-on enamel more closely resembles enameled cast iron, so you're going to get a better result.  Comparing these two pot belly stoves, I think the ivory one looks a lot more realistic than the green one.

The hair-thin black edges and slightly pebbly texture add realism.

Even with a spray coat over it (Testors "glosscote"), it just doesn't look quite as good.

Oh, yeah, and it's counter-intuitive, but glossy varnish looks better than matte varnish.  It also contrasts much more nicely with the flat black.  Or, at least, I think so.

If you don't want your finish to look pebbly, well, there's a sanding sponge for that and I'll talk about it (if anyone's interested) when I do the parlor stove.  Also known as The Kit From Hell, but that's another story.  Anyway, moving on...

Speaking of which, some mistakes are liberating but some are just depressing.  If it's become a stone around your neck, don't be demoralized; throw it out.  I've thrown out quite a few kits, but I can't really say my money or time was wasted.  I learned a lot.  If every project you try comes out perfect, then you're not stretching yourself and you'll never get better.  Don't be afraid to waste materials, screw up, and look like an idiot.  Within reason, of course; I don't think this stove would make much of a hat.  Or work well as underpants.

Think outside the box, color-wise.  This is your house, do what you want with it.  Just because the folks at Dee's Delights who now produce Chrysnbon made it out of black polystyrene, doesn't mean it has to be black.  Back in the day, people were, I think, a lot more creative with color.  Some of this had to do with the fact that, sans electric light, duller colors were really just lost.  The reason why all that wallpaper was virulently red, black, etc was so it'd show up in gaslight.  And people weren't afraid to go all out, either.  Why can't your pot belly stove be purple?  I've seen antique examples that were aqua, blue, every color under the rainbow.  And even if nobody ever painted it that color before, who cares?

Sometimes gluing two already-painted pieces together causes an ugly colored blob to ooze out.  You can get rid of it by dipping a small angled brush into thinner, then carefully brushing out the seam.  Quickly brush off any excess thinner, to prevent it from eating the surrounding paint.  Repeat the process until it's all gone--and, if all else fails, remember that you can always sand it out and repaint it if you have to.

Wet sanding is key.

Don't spray paint outside.  Even if you're not near a tree--and I can't tell you how many little tree parts I've found embedded in my projects--you're still not safe.  Dude, a bird pooped on the red cook stove.  Invest in a hood, if you can afford it, otherwise try to spray somewhere that's well-ventilated but at least somewhat covered.

One trick I used, when I had to spray outside, was to, as soon as I finished spraying, immediately put a piece of cardboard over my spray box.  Gloss paints stay tacky a LOT longer than flat paints, so keep this in mind.

Stay organized.  All those little bits and pieces can take over your work area, room, and house really quickly.  My family's really tolerant but, um, still.  In college, one of my roommates painted Warhammer figurines and everyone was always stepping on something.  I got out of the shower, put my foot on the mat and got a spear through the webbing between my toes; he was furious that I'd ruined his guy.  What I wanted to know was, why was it in the bathroom in the first place?

The Chrysnbon Cook Stove: Antiqued and Fabulous

The inspiration for this stove came from two sources: Burlington, ME and a mistake.  I saw a really wonderful stove for sale, where the body and neck were the most fantastic blue, and I thought "I can do that."  Well, as it turned out, I probably could've, but impatience, weather, and a few mini disasters intervened.  I'm glad they did, as I much prefer what I ended up with.  You can make your own judgments and, of course, antique as much or as little (or not at all) as you wish.

Since metalizers take awhile to dry--and shed!--I usually do that step first, then put my "metal" pieces aside for a time when I can concentrate on them, and know I won't be touching anything else.  I've had too many silvery fingerprints (from what I thought were well-scrubbed fingers) appear on matte black surfaces!

Metalizers like the oil in your skin, and will adhere to it--much like fingerprint powder.  Now, of course, you don't have to use metalizers; plain old metallic paint will work fine.  I particularly like the Testors metallic silver paint, although I prefer the spray version.  With most of the metallic colors, I've found that the sprays coat more evenly.

"Aluminum plate" versus Chrysnbon-flavored "silver metal."

The paint I found, that I decided to use--that was almost the right color--was Nassau blue metallic.  Which, if you like cars, you know was popular on the Corvette in '65 and '66.  My original plan was to spray the blue bits of the stove (after priming, and sanding where necessary) and then, later, to seal them with a topcoat of Testors "dullcote."  Which, as the name implies, is a mattifying spray.  Below, you can see the difference between the body of the stove and the door, with and without it.

Shiny stove body, dull door.

 I taped off the inside of the stove with masking tape, so that wouldn't turn blue, too.

Right color, wrong finish.

Then, well, I got over-enthusiastic.  See, I really, really wanted to work on this stove.  And I'd just started with the Chrysnbon kits, and had (and have) a world of mistakes in front of me.  Long story short, even though it was raining--so, like, 100% humidity--I went ahead and sprayed on my "dullcote" anyway.  And, extreme duh, it fogged right up.  See the difference, below.

Note: if this happens to you, and you don't want it to happen, or aren't willing to work with the project as it's become, you can usually salvage your piece by waiting for it to dry--and dry and dry--and then (on a suitably hot, humidity-free day) spraying on a glossy coat.  For whatever reason, this usually eliminates fog.

But in my case, I decided to press on.  Because, well, it wasn't what I'd intended...but it looked really cool, nevertheless.

I had to tape off the bottom portion, so I could re-spray the top.  This was another (just plain dumb) mistake I made: not checking that the pipe was adequately blackened before gluing it on.  I mean, it worked out in the end, but still.

And here's the body, before I started antiquing:

For the antiquing process, I used black craft paint.  I usually buy Delta Ceramcoat, but they're all kind of the same thing.  I painted on successive layers, using plenty of water, and dabbing off the excess with a q-tip.  Which, by the way, q-tips are the greatest craft invention ever.  What I found was that, to get the effect I wanted, I needed to use successive thin coats and, slowly, accrete "grime"--just like what happens in real life.

About halfway there.

After I'd completed a few layers and let them dry, I took a dullish piece of sanding sponge and brushed it over the highlights.  I pressed just hard enough to remove the "grime," but not hard enough to remove the actual color.

I periodically checked the body with the door, to make sure that both looked equally aged--and like they belonged together.

Then I let everything dry overnight.  My family actually wanted to, you know, see me anyway.  Funny thing, that.

By the way, I have a couple of construction notes.  One is, glue the upper part of the stove to the stove top first, before you attempt to attach either to the stove body.  Preferably, clamp the two together--I glue them together as soon as I have both painted--and let the seam dry overnight.  Otherwise, in my experience, anyway, the two pieces never fit together completely right.  And, being a perfectionist, I want an utterly flush, neat seam.

A few days later, when I had more time to work on the project, I glued on the back.

And taped it in place.  Be careful where you use masking tape; it's usually fine on matte finishes, but will pull metallic finishes right off the plastic.  Getting the stove body square--at whatever point in the project you assemble it--can be a challenge.

While that was setting, I aged the pad.  Basically, I stippled it with the same black, in layers, until it looked suitably revolting.

The weakness in this kit is the feet.  I don't understand why it couldn't be constructed like the pot belly stove, where the feet slot into the body--thus ensuring both alignment and stability.  Really, this stove has neither so you have to be careful.  I usually go in this order of assembly: back to cook top, body sub-assembly, attach hardware, back/cook top sub-assembly to body sub-assembly, upper pipe to collar, upper pipe/collar to stove unit, and FEET LAST.

This is the method I've found works the best: first, flip the stove over (I usually rest it on a can of spray paint, or something similar), and glue in the feet.  Let them set for an hour or two, but no longer.  This glue sets in four hours.  You want the feet stable enough so they don't fall apart when you try to fit them into the pad, but not so firmly in place that you can't push and pull them a little.  Because if you just glue them in and let them dry, your pad will NOT fit.

Here, I let the feet set for about two hours, then fitted the pad on.  I used a couple paint pots to weigh them (very lightly) in place and let this attractive setup cure overnight.  Then, the next day, after everything was dry, I glued the feet into the pad.

When griming up the stove, I thought about where, naturally, dirt, oil, etc would occur, where it would collect.  Some spots are easier to clean than others--and some just look more disgusting, year after year.

Since this is (in my magical pretend world) still a regularly used stove, it's free of rust, etc.  I wanted it to be old and gross, but still well-maintained.  Which is why the cooking surface itself is still reasonably clean.

And here's where I learned about the sub-assembly issue.  Here, I'd assembled everything in the right order but not let it dry long enough.  Impatience, once again rearing its ugly head.  I solved the problem with a minor amount of Testors putty.  It tends to dry and get crumbly very quickly, so if you want a little more dexterity, squeeze some onto your palette and mix it with a tiny amount of thinner.  It'll stay malleable a lot longer (you can always dip your brush in more thinner, but go sparingly), and squeeze into small joints much more easily.

Once this was dry, I sanded it down--very carefully--and painted over it with a combination of Testors flat black and black craft paint (one after the other).  It was pretty tricky, but since I couldn't touch it up with the blue, which is available only in spray form, I decided that this would be another really grimy area.  Which, of course, in real life, it would be.

In the meantime, my Artograph 1530 came, and we set it up.

I didn't spray it, I just kept it in here for safekeeping while it dried.

Fun with safety!  Mr. Awesome, Sr. tries on my respirator.  Which, there are only so many times you can get high spraying varnish (even outdoors) before, dude, it gets old.  A decent respirator costs as little as 35 bucks and saves brain cells.  I need all of mine!

And, clearly, so does my husband.

And then it was done...

And now, a brief pictorial presentation of why I live in Maine.  These were all taken in my, well, I guess what you'd call a "neighborhood."  I've spared you the endless pictures of creatively maintained trailers, sheep, and hubcaps.

So there you have it, folks.  I hope that, if you end up making a stove, you're happy with it.  This is kind of a challenging kit, but worth the effort.  There just aren't that many decent stoves out there, particularly for "smaller" 1:12 scales.  If you're doing a larger 1:12 scale house, though, and have absolutely no desire to make your own stove, Reutter Porzellan's cook stove is really lovely and, if you've got the money, worth the price tag.