Sculptural Art Inspiration: Spray Painted Grape Stems

Okay, you might decide I’m completely daft after this post, but this morning as I was getting our little girl some grapes, I paused to admire the beauty of the stems. They’re so lovely and graphic and aesthetically appealing and asymmetrically balanced and whimsical, you know? Hmm… or maybe I’m just crazy. {I promise I inhaled no paint fumes before the idea was already conceived.}

I love how God weaves beauty into even the most mundane and functional aspects of creation.

So I grabbed a can of white spray paint out of the garage and took about five seconds to mist on a coat or two. Wouldn’t neon orange or pale aqua or black be kind of fabulous, too?! Eat up, kids! Mama’s got art to make!

And it’s a good thing my kids love grapes, because I’m thinking a whole tangled pile of these in a dark bowl could look cool.

They remind me of tree branches or coral or antlers.

They’re kind of fantastic.

So, you ever have a [slightly wacky] lightning bolt of inspiration?


And if you like these photos, you might enjoy my post on how to set up a home studio in minutes…


3 responses to “Sculptural Art Inspiration: Spray Painted Grape Stems

  1. Hi, Gina, I found your photos of grape stems online and fell in love with them. I am thinking about perhaps using one on the cover my book of poems entitled, What Zero Looks Like. May I have your permission to do so? Here’s the poem that goes with the image and the title:

    What Zero Looks Like

    He says, What’s the biggest number?
    What’s out there, after atmosphere and space?
    We are driving home from preschool.
    There is no biggest number, I say.
    There is always one more.
    He is quiet then, strapped in his car seat,
    packing his cheeks with one grape after the other.

    I open and close like the sliding doors of my mini-van,
    watching him in the rear view mirror of my life,
    How much to say? How much not to say?
    He says, After the oxygen we breathe
    there is space that goes on and on and on.
    It’s called zero. I stop myself from saying
    that it’s not zero; it’s infinity.
    His feet kick the back of the driver’s seat.
    Zero is when there is nothing, I say, adding
    Would you like a cheese cracker?
    He says, No thanks. I’ll have zero cheese crackers.
    Then, to make a point he adds,
    And no one knows what zero looks like.

    I am propelled again, a bell, a wooden clapper,
    then silence along with the traffic.
    I pull up to the front of the house
    and go around to Nico’s side of the van.
    The capsule pops open and he emerges
    by his own propulsion, standing on the edge,
    about to take one big step onto the curb.
    He holds out a trashy cluster of stems
    without one fruit left on it.
    That’s what zero looks like, he says
    and drops it into my hand.

    Thanks for considering my request.
    Jackie St. Joan


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