Arms in the Air For the travel issue’s T, the artist and photographer Adam Wallacavage turned his trademark — tentacled chandeliers — into the magazine’s. “It was a little bit harder than I thought it would be,” Wallacavage says. “My style can be dark and gloomy looking at times, but I wanted this to feel light and elegant and somewhat simple. The simple part was the hardest.” Here Wallacavage, whose work is on display at the Philadelphia Art Alliance in the installation “Shiny Monsters” through Aug. 19, talks to T about octopuses and why he’d never dream of eating one. How long did it take you to make this T? About a month thinking about it, but then about a few days of work. Please list all of the materials you used: Lamp parts, epoxy clay, spray paint and secret sauce to give it that classy glassy look! What do you call the color of your T? I never thought of it, but I think “Sparkle Factory Pink” would be nice, seeing that I developed this color originally for some chandeliers I made for my friend the jewelry designer Tarina Tarantino.

Where is the T chandelier now? I changed some of the tentacles after I shot it and made it match a set of pink chandeliers that are now hanging in a beautiful mansion turned craft and design center in Rittenhouse Square in Philadelphia called the Philadelphia Art Alliance. I have a solo show there this summer of about 30 pieces up until the middle of August. T stands for (fill in the blank) __________________ ?I can’t think of a word that starts with a “T” and relates to an octopus. Have you ever seen an octopus with tentacles the size of these in real life?Last October I was in Catalina Island doing an underwater photo shoot for my friend Natalia Fabia with some models in the kelp forest there as a reference for a painting she was making, and I was swimming around taking some photos of shells and things at the bottom when I put my hand directly on an octopus tentacle. It was amazing because I didn’t even see it laying there all camouflaged until I touched it and skirted away.

Is this chandelier modeled after any specific species of octopus? If yes, what kind? I never set out to try to make the chandeliers realistic, so I just made this from my own imagination. But if I had to pick, it would probably whatever species Squiddly Diddly is.chandelier nazca Do you eat octopus?waterford crystal a5 chandelier I’m allergic to shellfish and since the octopus is a relative of the Natulis, it falls into the that category. chandelier betekenisNot that I care to be technical about my allergies or anything, but eating it makes my throat itchy.Inspired by the Gothic interiors of now-closed Catholic churches he visited throughout Philadelphia, Adam Wallacavage channeled his fascination with chandeliers by creating Jules Verne-inspired lighting for the dining room in his Victorian brownstone.

To construct these octopus sculptures, Wallacavage taught himself the traditional techniques of ornamental plastering, which includes large-cast plaster work and hand-sculpted pieces from epoxy-clay. Those initial sculptures inspired Wallacavage to continue to experiment in form, color, and technique, developing his own unique glazes and application technique to give his pieces a unique vibrant shimmer. Recently, Wallacavage has added his love of kitsch to his sculptures. Casts of cartoon bunnies and elephants, Hello Kitty heads, and vintage toys are incorporated into his pieces, which are then covered in bright shades such as bubble-gum pink and mint green. The resulting sculptures reflect his varied aesthetic interests, ranging from 16th Century Baroque opulence to 1940s Americana. ~ Jonathan Levine Gallery"I'm like an eccentric millionaire who's just a thousandaire who's figured out how to be an eccentric millionaire," he says. Here's a partial list of this "thousandaire's" random talents: He's a skateboarder and photographer who shoots skaters, artists and musicians for himself and other stuff for an ad agency.

He's a cartoonist, 'zine creator and silk-screen printer, a self-taught ornamental-plaster artisan and interior decorator who seems to throw Victoriana and grunge at the wall to see what develops. He makes plaster-cast octopus chandeliers that are wonderfully wacky. He has a squeaky-toy collection, four parakeets, and a host of taxidermic favorites that he uses as photo props right there in the living room window. There's a permanently roaring lizard and a dusty armadillo, a bear cub that died by automobile, and a resplendent peacock, all fabulous flea-market finds. "It doesn't cost a lot of money to do eccentric, fun things," Wallacavage says. It helps to be serially obsessed - more time to search and collect. He's obsessed with the ocean, from summers in Wildwood Crest. Give him a millisecond and he suggests that Broad Street is kind of like the ocean. With Mummers and protesters and all manner of possessed and dispossessed filling street and sidewalk, Wallacavage says, "you never know what can wash up.

It has a possibility of mystery about it." He's obsessed with the moody beauty and extravagant interiors of old Catholic churches, which, at night, remind him of being underwater. Their images bubble up from childhood and a faith that endures today. Though not yet 40, Wallacavage is also obsessed with creating a legacy. It will include both "permanent, pretty and inspiring" works of art and his "Victorian fun house." Let it be said here: He's on his way. The house, bought in 2000 with his now-ex-wife for $115,000, is in the 1800 block of South Broad, one of those brownstones you pass all the time on your way somewhere. But come inside, as scores did on Jan. 1 to watch the Mummers, and prepare to be entertained. First stop: the living room, formerly a doctor's office. It's no surprise to learn that as a kid Wallacavage loved The Addams Family, the hilariously macabre '60s TV show about a nuclear-family nuthouse: Gomez and Morticia, kids Pugsley and Wednesday, Uncle Fester and Lurch, hairy Cousin Itt and disembodied Thing.

It's funny," Wallacavage opines, speaking as much about the Addamses as his photos, published by Gingko Press in 2006 in a volume titled Monster Size Monsters. "I always liked the word monster," he explains. "I like the idea that they're supposed to be scary but they're not." This is the worldview that prompts Jim Houser to call his friend of almost 20 years "my hero." They grew up together in Springfield, Delaware County, went to Cardinal O'Hara High School together, and embraced skateboarding, later art, together. Houser, an artist in Queen Village, describes his pal as the kind of person who says things like: "How come mermaids' tails don't start at their knees?" Lest you get the impression Wallacavage is some kind of freak, please - not at all. He's quite conventional in some ways: strongly desires a wife and children, spent eight years as a Seabee in the Navy Reserve, and in 1995 earned a fine-arts degree at the University of the Arts. He's also stayed true to his Catholic faith. "As much as I can," he offers.

"I've been living in a huge, crazy art world for a long, long, long time, and it pretty much opposes - a lot of times despises - my faith," he says. "But I've always felt protected in my belief. It's a real good, solid base." Wallacavage is one of five children in a family he describes as "awesome close." Dad Mike is a retired IBM manager. Mom Joyce, a homemaker, says Adam was a quiet, creative child. He often entertained himself by dressing up in costumes - pirate, cowboy, space explorer - and pretending his parents' bed and built-in bookcases were his ship, horse or rocket. "Adam was different, happily so," Joyce Wallacavage says with a laugh, describing how she'd sometimes find "fun little cartoon characters" doodled on his grade-school papers. She matter-of-factly taught her son to sew; he now has his own sewing machine and makes over-the-top velvet curtains with fringe and doodads. This he's done more than once in his fun house, which he calls "my elaborate sketchbook." But there's so much more, including what you might say is - and this is quite a distinction - the most arresting part of the house: the dining room.

Designed to feel like it's 20,000 leagues under the sea, it's a foamy blue-green with octopus and seashell chandeliers and an old-fashioned mural, a previous owner's commission, featuring sailboats and a lighthouse by a beach. The room feels tight, a paean to oceanic excess, reminiscent of Jules Verne's Nautilus. It's presided over by a large and oddly unnerving diving helmet. (Could it be Captain Nemo's?) "This room is just going and going and going," Wallacavage says, gesturing to the portholes, the petrified starfish, the melted wax on the candelabra. It's "circus-y," all lime, white and yellow stripes, an escape from the "dark gothy-y look of the rest of the house," its creator says. The guest room's not so goth. Its eight-armed octopus chandelier drips with Barbie pearls fashioned by jewelry designer Tarina Tarantino, for whom Wallacavage did a photo shoot in Los Angeles. "I'm just stuck on the tentacle thing for now," he says, as if it were a Cheerios kick. His chandeliers sell for between $6,000 and $18,000, and Wallacavage says he's making a living off them.