Penny Faich

The Oak Hill Circle

Anne Grant

Providence Village members residing in Pawtucket began the Oak Hill Neighborhood Circle in May 2018. We’ve held monthly potlucks in homes large enough for us to divide into small groups, getting acquainted by responding to open-ended questions about our own lives.

Penny Faich’s artistry made her home feel like a magical museum tended by winsome animals, a make-believe maid, butler, and even a tipsy guest in a bathtub.

When the pandemic intruded early in 2020, we quickly found our way to Zoom, where Penny urged us to meet weekly. She often made greeting cards as we talked. She showed us her glass creations fresh from the kiln.

Eventually we met again, in the garden tended by her husband, Don MacDonald. Penny’s stories and questions prompted many thoughtful conversations, and we miss her enormously. [Penny died in 2025. ed.]

Editor’s note: This Village Voices profile was made possible by the kindness of her friends in the Oak Hill Circle of Providence Village. My photography of her artworks was facilitated by Penny’s friend Linda Cardell, who was charged with the “monumental task” of breaking down Penny’s studio: The following text was transcribed from a recording made in Penny’s home, where she addressed her circle. Penny had a very wry, funny storytelling style that her friends loved. You will have to imagine their occasional outbursts of laughter. Or listen to the 20-minute recording by clicking on the "play" button of the audio panel, below. This text is lightly edited for length and clarity. John Harkey

Penny, in her own words

Where I was born, in Wisconsin, kids were born in state hospitals. Right after I was born, I was pushed into the infantile paralysis ward by mistake. And left there. I contracted polio. But those first 13 years of my life were the best. I really was a blank slate. This was in a monastery, a monastery with nuns, in Ozaukee County, which was all farmland. The nuns wore habits, spoke Spanish, and took care of polio kids. There were a lot of us. I didn’t know anybody who didn’t have polio. We were very sick and supposedly not to live. They let the parents come only on Wednesdays and Sundays, if they came at all.

We had animals. The first animals we had were birds, and each of us got a cage. We left the doors of the monastery open so the pigs and cows and sheep and everybody walked through the house. It was really fun. We didn’t have toys; we had stuff. We had stuff upon stuff upon stuff. And what we did was to make things from it all. If a kid could make something out of paper, a kid could do something. We didn’t know better. We just made stuff.

The nuns financed our monastery by making pickles. They went out to harvest the cucumbers, and if we could get out there, we could do that too. We were brought up on kosher pickles — stood to reason to me. In October, all the cars and every form of transportation would come to the facility — everybody knew this was where they were going to get their pickles. And they would leave stuff for us. So we had more stuff. We were also supported by the Braves baseball team: the Atlanta Braves, the Milwaukee Braves, the Boston Braves. We were their charity. So they brought in this doctor who picked kids he thought he could help. I was one of them, ten years old. Through too many surgeries, I walked out of there, sort of, at 13. That was not a good time.

I always knew how to do things. I don’t know how I always knew how to do things. I have no idea how I know how to do things. It’s my way of life. It’s not that I’m not terrifically creative the way you think it would be. I didn’t go to university to learn any art. It was just a matter of..I just knew how to do things. I remember being in San Francisco before my Peace Corps stint. I went into a furniture store where I saw a modern-art approach to furniture. When I got to San Salvador, where I would live, I figured out how to make that furniture. I don’t know how I figured it out. I knew I didn’t want to nail it; I wanted to peg it. I read some books, and there you’re now sitting on it. It’s been that way my entire life of doing art. The thing is, no matter the art form, whatever I wanted to do, I knew I could make something and sell it. I grew up with no money, but I knew I could make anything, and somebody would buy it. If my daughter needed to do something, to get something, I’d take some clay and make something. Even when we found this house twelve years ago — we couldn’t afford this house — but I thought I could make buttons for a living. Who knew? Who knew a button? I wanted to make buttons and that bought this house. This house was made with buttons that I made! That’s the way it’s been my whole life.

I had 3 or 4 galleries that consistently featured my work. My business partner [Linda Cardell] makes four things a year, four glass pieces a year for contests. She works full-time, but she wants to make four pieces of glass for contests, and that’s it. She usually wins. The difference for me was that I needed to be a production artist. I needed to make a lot of something, one thing, or things, and that would be my income. So, in a way, I “sold out,” but in a way, I also bought in. It started me in life, and it will end me in life. No matter what happens, I go back to that blank slate. Like today at physical therapy, they gave me some clay to make my fingers work better. By the time I was done, I had taken all the clay out of the carton and made something with it. That’s the way I’ve always been; if it’s in front of me and I can make something with it, I’ll do it. It’s not training. It’s just inside me. That’s all it is. If I see it, I usually can make it, and I don’t know why.

Two years ago I broke my leg and my hip, and I went to Fatima Hospital for almost a month. I didn’t know what I was going to do. So one of my students brought in some alcohol ink. By the time I left, my double room was converted to a single room. They took out the other bed, and they gave me three tables. After therapy every day I would start painting. I would make cards. After their shifts, the nurses could come in and they would take away two cards every day.

Hover cursor over each card image to enlarge.

Penny’s cards.

I have to tell you, fusing glass is about the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Not because it’s so hard to do, but because there is so much to be able to do. And to learn. It’s amazing — it goes on and on and on. My other most significant challenge is that I can isolate very easily. I could go downstairs [to her studio] and never come up. I’ve had to really learn that people come first. People first. Because I could be down there forever. My kids don’t want to come near any artwork; they don’t care about it, and they never were interested. I asked, “What do you want to take when I die?” They said, “Nothing. This house is so weird, I don’t want to bring anybody here.”

Hover cursor over each image to enlarge.

I have unbelievable luck with things. I’m in New York doing this craft show, not making any money. And somebody comes in and says there’s a lady on Columbus Avenue flattening bottles and charging forty dollars. I didn’t see her, but I went home and told Don [her husband] about this, and he said, “We used to do that at camp with beer bottles.” I had a small kiln, so we put one in the kiln, and it came out flat. Eh. I wondered, what can I do with this? I put feet underneath, and sandblasted the word CHEESE on it. I put a knife on it that I bought at Home Goods and wrapped it up. I made about ten of them and took them to my next craft show. In ten minutes they were all gone. Fast forward, I sold three thousand of them in three years. I used to steal the bottles out of my neighbors’ garbage. I got all my exercise walking from garbage can to garbage can with a bag until the police caught me, twice. Then I went knocking on people’s doors to ask for their bottles. On garbage day, you couldn’t get up my driveway. I knew every alcoholic in the land. My temple had, not a fundraiser, but an empty bottle fundraiser for me. Soon, everybody working the craft shows — I don’t care if they sold carrots — they had flattened wine bottles in their booth. That got my kids through college and paid for their weddings.

I’m sitting in New York, another show. A lady comes into my booth with this beautiful, beautiful silk jacket. She said, “They’re not selling. Have you ever made glass buttons?” I said, “No.” She said, “Are you willing to try?” I said, “Okay.” She gave me some silk to look at, for me to take home. I made her ten sets of buttons. A week later, she calls and says, “I sold them all. I sold them in ten minutes. I want us to do every single jacket. Make me a hundred sets.” So I made her a hundred sets. A month later, she calls. “I’ve got good news and bad news.” I said, “Give it to me.” “I’ve been picked up nationally. I need a thousand sets.”

Hover cursor over each button image to enlarge.

Somebody told me about a show at the DCU Center in Worcester that was having a fiber show. So I made some buttons and talked my way in — a tiny, little booth — to be able to show my buttons. Everybody was amazed. I met this couple who gave me a list of all the shows she does. I called every promoter on that list and I got into all those shows because they didn’t know what I was talking about, and I was different. All of a sudden, I was in the button business. Who knew that there are more quilt shows, more weaving shows, more knitting shows, more sewing shows than there ever were craft shows. Every corner, every place than you could possibly imagine. I sold at 26 shows a year. It was just like a miracle.

All photography above is by Phil West and Anne Grant.

All photography below is by John Harkey, assisted by Linda Cardell in Penny’s home.

Artwork

Hover cursor over each image in the Artwork section to enlarge.

On cleaning out Penny’s studio: “I’ve nearly finished with the task she entrusted to me, and recently realized that what I have experienced this summer was a retrospective of Penny’s life in art. What a life it was – and what a blessing to be a part of it.”

Linda Cardell, September 2025