Screen Shot 2016-07-07 at 4.27.37 PM.png
A CONVERSATION WITH POET AND JEWELER TO POETS PAIGE TAGGART OF MACTAGGART JEWELRY Green mossy and marbled agate. Hot pink and smoky quartz. Carnelian, topaz, hematite, abalone, lapis lazuli, chalcedony, and black onyx. Wearable incantations. Beads made from fossilized sea sponge. Body Armor. Semi-precious stones substantial enough to swing over your head for a different type of protection. Vintage rings sans rocks, their naked settings filed into “window” frames, transforming the wearer’s finger skin itself into the thing to be flashed and admired, even better if an old tattoo peaks through. Stones that evoke planets, arranged like planets. Hitchcock’s theory that an icicle is the best murder weapon (no evidence after melting) reincarnated as a necklace. A soothing kind of heaviness, of weight. Vintage chains that clasp in the front. An ornate stem of an antique spoon with flowers creeping up it brought back as a pendant. I want them all. I settle for two new pieces, for now: a spike of black tourmaline shaped like an upside-down skyscraper on a slick brick chain, for balance, and a chainmail-like choker with a casting of a shark’s tooth big enough to feel like a heart shield that warms from the heat of my clavicle when I wear it, still dreaming and scheming of the cast brass acorns and glowing moonstones I hope will fill my future. It’s crystal as the druzies hanging in Paige Taggart’s studio why so many of her customers soon become collectors of her well-priced jewelry (most items are between $30 and $100). How could they resist? Post-chat, I join Paige and some friends in the garden of a nearby bar. All except one of us are wearing her creations, including the men (the outlier had just arrived in town). For a minute, I feel like a member of an otherworldly order of priests and priestesses of art and letters. Which, I realized, is exactly how I want my jewelry to make me feel. Don’t we all?   GO READ MORE

A CONVERSATION WITH POET AND JEWELER TO POETS PAIGE TAGGART OF MACTAGGART JEWELRY

Green mossy and marbled agate. Hot pink and smoky quartz. Carnelian, topaz, hematite, abalone, lapis lazuli, chalcedony, and black onyx. Wearable incantations. Beads made from fossilized sea sponge. Body Armor. Semi-precious stones substantial enough to swing over your head for a different type of protection. Vintage rings sans rocks, their naked settings filed into “window” frames, transforming the wearer’s finger skin itself into the thing to be flashed and admired, even better if an old tattoo peaks through. Stones that evoke planets, arranged like planets. Hitchcock’s theory that an icicle is the best murder weapon (no evidence after melting) reincarnated as a necklace. A soothing kind of heaviness, of weight. Vintage chains that clasp in the front. An ornate stem of an antique spoon with flowers creeping up it brought back as a pendant. I want them all. I settle for two new pieces, for now: a spike of black tourmaline shaped like an upside-down skyscraper on a slick brick chain, for balance, and a chainmail-like choker with a casting of a shark’s tooth big enough to feel like a heart shield that warms from the heat of my clavicle when I wear it, still dreaming and scheming of the cast brass acorns and glowing moonstones I hope will fill my future. It’s crystal as the druzies hanging in Paige Taggart’s studio why so many of her customers soon become collectors of her well-priced jewelry (most items are between $30 and $100). How could they resist? Post-chat, I join Paige and some friends in the garden of a nearby bar. All except one of us are wearing her creations, including the men (the outlier had just arrived in town). For a minute, I feel like a member of an otherworldly order of priests and priestesses of art and letters. Which, I realized, is exactly how I want my jewelry to make me feel. Don’t we all?   GO READ MORE


PAIGE Taggart's POETRY...

Full Length Collections