A design series is a grouping of jewelry pieces that are related to each other by a theme. Eve creates a new jewelry series every six months. They appear alphabetically below, most with a short story or poem from Eve about the series. Click on the name or the picture to go to the individual jewelry pieces.
"With each of my Series, I tell a story: of the woods, the water, the sky, of the long history of nations and of the love between two people. Then you will add your story, and that of your family, to entwine into a delicate, precious, unique jewel, for you and for generations to come."
Series 31 to 39 of 39
"Ancient beaten gold, curved into metal-like
ornaments for a Sumarian princess,
with the staying power of simple forms...
The pearls...white as the moon, as a lake in winter,
or, a treasure trove of pearls with muted tints, antique rose, with glimmers of bronze, purple,
or dusty pink...pearls with the luster of a polished apple, and the shimmer of silk and faille."
– Eve J. Alfillé, Spring 1982
Tempus Fugit. Carpe Diem. In Pompeii, one receives the gift of second sight.
A life appears, abundant, irreverent, irresistible. Masters and slaves, their wine, their dogs. Sandals slapping the finely paved streets. Every artist in Rome, it seems, has been hired to come down and fresco or fit minute fragments into this still life, which I Claudius or Brutus, or Julia, command: A roast duck mosaicked for the ages for my dining hall. My triclinium.
But tempus not only fugit, it stretches or shrinks. our vision narrows. Must it? Diane, Becky and I travelled to see Pompeii as it stands now: ruined. and also with our second, deeper sight, we saw Pompeii as it lived. Masters, slaves, their dogs. And I wished to present to you their jewels as they could have been. But then
With yet another set of eyes I wish for you to see how time has stretched the beauty, how the ruins have evolved a tongue. Lizarded walls sing, and yes if you listen, a faint flute and cymbals will be heard, and yes I must now prepare yet another set of jewels for you who hear the sound.
Eve J. Alfillé, April 2015
The melancholy of old cemeteries, with their graceful timeworn statuary, their ponds, weeping willows and vines slowly overtaking grief cannot be compared with the grim efficiency of those of our age. I imagined Ivy, a lovely young girl of 1915, long amber hair and a flowing skirt, at the confluence of youthful idealism and the certain knowledge that humans will always wage wars.
My parents' photo albums contained many intriguing photos of young girls I would never know. One day, as I visited Chicago photographer David Schachman 's exhibit, I saw one such face, a statue of a young girl with her arms extended, both hopeful and hobbled by stillness. She looked like my father's sister, who died young in a Russian forest. She looked like all the children we love, and for her, and the others, I started sketching jewelry to reflect their grace and the light in their eyes.
Just like photos in an album, many pieces in this series are held within oval frames. I love to use moonstones for the light they shed, a sheen that needs a particular angle to be seen, and I love opals for the scenes they contain. Blue is very much a color of my series, sapphires, kyanite and tanzanites, contrasting with the tang of a soft bronze green, chrysoberyl and peridot and the ripeness of burnt orange garnets. Each of the pieces in “Raining at Rosehill” asks the viewer to consider its many elements carefully before basking in its revelation.
– Eve J. Alfillé, Fall 2009
The Sea of Sargasso is a mysterious patch of the Atlantic Ocean where freshwater eels return to spawn, and a tangle of seaweed awaits unlucky ships. Many are the tales that place lost Atlantis in the depths below. But intrepid souls venture through, as did Columbus, and poets never stopped dreaming of its transparent waters.
In my own Nautilus, I sail twenty fathoms deep, eyes open to the muted greens and azures of the sea. In this world, dark shadows writhe through the mist, then arch outward in a luminous volute. A new order beckons, an aqueous world of scale and fin, light and darkness. Those who can calmly behold their fear will pass through, and live to tell the tale.
– Eve J. Alfillé, Spring 2006
"Civilization is what remains when all else is gone"
Not many signs endure: one digs mostly pottery shards, the occasional tool. But always there is jewelry, a sign of status, civility, interaction, worship, of a deity or another's supreme beauty.
When you dig, one inch is roughly a hundred years: in the same place near a stream one people lived in peace; much later another came and took over; then others came and conquered, then others and others again, leaving their mark in the same place.
Their styles vary, their understanding of the world, their powers of abstraction, and I remain fascinated by those signs, layers accumulated in a roped-off square one meter wide.
Eve J. Alfille, Spring 2009
Long ago, youth
recollected in time. Slowly
without witness grew, to
be held in esteem
discovered in a future time;
the stoic earth as incubator.
The rhythm of nature's chemistry
liquid minerals enthusiastically
join in the creation; the din.
Inorganic life: the stone flower;
offspring of patience and persistence,
old, not unchanged; yet seemingly unbent
to any worldly will. Light. Steps. Found treasure!
Aladdin's cave to a young fanciful eye; blooming
as if come to life, celebrated at last by one who would.
– Eve J. Alfillé, Spring 2002
A breeze from leeward, a breath. Long
Fronds rustle. All is still, and green dreams
Are dreamt. The mariner stirs. Violent rain
Sluices down Pele's haunts; perhaps
The goddess will dance tonight.
Nearly horizontal tall palms
Bend, lashed by her fury:
A sulfurous sea has risen.
He stirs, turns and waits for dawn:
A breeze from leeward, a breath.
All is still.
– Eve J. Alfillé, Spring 2000
"Queen Anne's lace, cockscomb, wisteria...
Nature is deliberate, each stem, each seed
predestined, serene, awaiting change.
I watch, and muse about human societies,
us, hierarchies, how we divide work.
Who goes first, who goes next,
and are we at peace with the plan?”
– Eve J. Alfillé, Spring 2007
For this series, I present illusion. The illusion of filtered light, of narrow tonal differences made important in the sere landscape of Antarctica. I hope you perceive the illusion of vastness, of Ice both solid and about to melt, of white-outs, howling winds, and immense loneliness. But also of swirling waters still pristine, where penguins sport, of morning sun, in the good months, grazing the ice; of the many, many shades of glacier blue. There may not be, in the pieces presented, anything like that blue, but if my task is well done, you will feel the blue, the water, the wind, the ice, the sun, the permanent emptiness of a land where humans do not dwell except as impermanent visitors or semi-permanent researchers.
After Paul Alfillé, my son, spent an austral summer in Antarctica, working with Weddell seals for medical research, his pictures revealed to me a universe of beauty and tragedy. The thought has been with me more than 20 years, and has inspired this special series: Voyage to Antarctica.
– Eve J. Alfillé, Spring 2013
Series 31 to 39 of 39