Where do ideas come from anyway?

People always ask Carol Mullen where her ideas come from. "I can't tell them," she said. "I don't know."

But if you spend a little time with her she will give you a wonderfully useful demonstration of how creativity works.

Her dining room table was covered in fetishes (objects believed to have magic powers, a charm) shaped like little magical people destined for the One World Gallery in Taos, The Weyrich Gallery in Albuquerque, Conley and Friends in Madrid and she will show her work at Cathedral Park in Santa Fe during the last week of September. They look so primitive and different, it's no wonder people ask where they come from.

To show me, she led me up a wooden staircase to her studio loft. She didn't clean up for me, because she wanted me to see how she worked. It was a small room covered in piles, stacks and heaps of stuff. It was a trash heap. It was like stepping into the subconscious mind. It was the chaos that God used to create the world. It was a primordial soup.

The first thing that she could say about ideas is that they're everywhere. "When they come I write them down. I collect them."

Scanning the surface of her studio, she begins to point out the types of things that she collects. Homemade paper, dried leaves, beads from a thrift shop necklace, rusty bottle caps from Molly's Bar were people can take their beers outside to drink, pieces of plumbing, a piece of a watch that looks like a little llama, button collections from estate sales, snapshots and letters, gum boxes and car parts. People find things for her to use. Her husband Jeff goes with her to the car salvage lot where they walk around and pick up stuff. "I call it ephemera on the ground."

When people see her looking for stuff, they sometimes ask Jeff, "Is your wife OK?" She doesn't care. Looking for things is as much fun as putting it together.

In her studio she starts with the paper. "I sit here with the stuff," she said, "and don't think about anything, really. I start adding things and see what happens."

The process is spontaneous, and playful. She trusts her instincts, letting herself put things together in ways that appeal to her. She has stashes of old letters and stashes of old postcards and has plans to put the photo of the crazy looking guy with the misspelled letter about how Dorothy promises to send money to her brother so he can go on killing rats. She wants to pair the photo of the girl in a sexy outrageous outfit with the postcard from the sunday school teacher, inviting her to come back soon. Her collages tell a story.

Before she did collages she knit. She shows me a whole stack of photos of her wearable art, including a vest that Julia Roberts bought. She is so immersed in and comfortable with the creative process that I had to ask: Has she ever been blocked?

She said, "No. Well, once."

When her mother died it took her several months to start working again. She worked through it by making a grief collage that had images of mothers form other cultures, crocheted things, buttons and recipes. She took her time with it, and when she was finished she was able to work again.