February First Post, in Which we go to the Basement and Dress for the Ball

I'm officially going underground! This will be my last post. I am ceasing the Facebook silliness, no longer will I blip onto Instagram. Who cares how many likes, how many views, how many followers? My vague neglect of Flickr, pinterest, etsy will fall under the umbrella of online abstinence. My digital footprint won't gain shoe sizes. I will forsake the new, the current, and live off the grid!

...Or at least descend into the basement. Which, uh, still has wifi access, so I can lose myself in most recent newfound escapism (Dexter, season three*). I've never been an all-or-nothing gal. More of a "more -- and then probably a little more." Sanity bonus: intermittent crying arrives, as if through layers of cotton, as if it holds less relevance than it does on the main floor...** 

More importantly, I shifted my picture book project wall downstairs. For the past couple

earlier versions of "Cake Stealer"

Quimbies: all scared, all "off"

years, it resided on the dining room wall in a hodge podge fashion -- sketches that were proving most troublesome, sketches I wanted to think about, newly pulled prints to remind myself of progress. But just a handful, masking taped underneath, or between, properly framed artwork hanging on the walls. Occasionally one would peel off to float behind the radio shelves; last week La Bebe lunged for a low-lying sketch with her grabby hand -- to rip, perchance to suck. The wall used to have spurring power; but in the past six months, it has offered remonstrance more than anything else: this is what you won't finish/solve/get to.

Idea for first page (2011)

Will a more complete wall actually turn my project around? Not just on its own, surely. But! Now, when you walk downstairs to the basement, you see the spare bed before you. A lamp to its left gives off a friendly glow from atop its repurposed, mirrored, sewing trestle table, itself relegated from the the living room (safety concerns). On the wall, every page of the Cakeasaurus picture book is laid out, in order, in three rows of double page spreads. The number of finished prints is heartening. Looking at it I feel a sense of accomplishment not felt for a long time, despite a few out-of-favor designs, page order snafus and uninspired pages begging for replacement. I can see it better now. The issues remain, but it has gained a new order, and with it, a renewed confidence that it will ultimately come together. Plus, it feels den-like, in the basement, in Winter. A coziness, and a remove.

***...And Now a Message from the Ladies' International Glove Council ***

An in-house workspace and get-away is nothing without distractions, though, right? Or, rather, if you are looking for distractions, you will find them anywhere, no matter how streamlined your space. Opposite the Project Wall lay stuff. Lots and lots of stuff, most of which, gladly doesn't lure me in (other than with the urge to pare down). But those two bags down there in shadow, what's inside? Better have a look.

Inside each are bags within bags, so old the plastic is brittle; clear pieces flake off and catch the light. My Grandmother's gloves. I know I didn't claim all of them, but over 30 pairs are here, carefully partnered, nestled, the paler shades nevertheless yellowed with age. The variety is impressive: wrist length to opera length, sweet embroidered details, silk to cotton to leather, pearlescent buttons at the inner wrist, neutrals to deep plum and Easter parade pastels. And why should it be otherwise, for a shrewd businesswoman and gifted seamstress, who drew up her own patterns tailored to her measurements, turning out dresses and jackets with matching linings, from the most cutting edge synthetics of the day?

But the gloves, even more than the dresses -- most of which are long gone -- illustrate how different was the time within which she lived. Such dainty, feminine restraint! Notions of purity met by snobby classicism. There must be fashion parallels to today, though they escape me now. They hold a weird power, even as they are now.*** They beg to be tried on, after all this time without use.

opera glove, called "mousquetaire" due to button opening

peekaboo wrist detail. I forgot about these plum ones

barely visible, but ruched along the sides

a small selection

the palest moss green

these were crazy, almost bridal

this leather was so soft, so thin, each finger slightly thicker than an envelope

these felt especially intimate somehow

My favorite glove bag: crown and crossed gloves~!

followed by this one -- look closely: a glove draped over the earth

Not glove-related, but an added bonus.

Van Raalte apprently also made hosiery and lingerie as well, natural pairings. See below for billboard (Atlantic City) and great vintage ads:

Detailed like precious jewelry!

And this one, not Van Raalte, but found among the Google flowers:

Gallingly wonderful! 

*But I don't think I watched all of season two? It reminds me that I still have a taste for (conveniently justified) glossy violence, even with the more recent, more finely honed maternal sensitivities. I suppose if he was a serial killer of children I would be unable to deal. Another reminder: opening credits can be so phenomenal! One of the best! Up there with Six Feet Under. And what else? Movies more than tv, certainly.   
**Disclaimer: noooooo, I don't leave my child crying for hours on end, stop it. I speak of nap protesting and the odd hour or two when she is not under my care.  
***Ohoooo! Here we go! the start of a less-than-successful possession story! "The gloves did indeed hold power...power beyond what she ever imagined. But as Clarissa changed and a new world unfolded, the question remained: would she be able to control this power, or would it control her?"

...But if I leave now, I'll miss overhearing the tarot readings.

... And a fine Saturday to You! The Michigan Theater audience at the morning showing of "Dear Mr. Watterson" was suitably fannish, short of anyone carrying stuffed tigers or dressing like Calvin. I always loved the comic strip* and it happily reentered my life with a daily strip courtesy a Facebook group, so I was keen to see this morning's Cinetopia offering.

*According to comic historians interviewed, the person who has been exposed to Calvin and Hobbes and dislikes it does not exist.
While embodying both, the film is definitely more of an appreciation than a documentary in the strictest sense. It reminded me of a college course I took (at Smith? Or Mount Holyoke?) It was a survey of shorter American fiction by women, and the primary text was one of those 4 inch thick paperback tomes with barely a spine, with nearly transparent onion skin paper. The professor spent her time lauding the merits of each short story or poem assigned. The students grew restless after a few classes. Young women groused to each other, "Wow, this is so great, that's so great...I could do this on my own~~" It was implied that the professor was lacking in intellectual rigor, or was daft/pollyanaish. This wasn't entirely fair. Explication was involved, but the analysis unfailingly had greater appreciation as its end-goal. I have thought about this periodically ever since, as my more puritan strain echoed their sentiments and chaffed at so much niceness: how could that be making us think better, stronger, or potentially improve what we would put out into the world? Too soft, too soft. But perhaps not?  Can thought-out appreciation be as valid as ferreting out the inner workings and weaknesses?  A more enjoyable mental place to inhabit...In any case, Dear Mr. Watterson falls in the former camp, and this approach seems to suit a comic strip which was all about a boy's imagination and the joyful flouting of authority...

Regrettably, the quite private Bill Watterson himself never makes an appearance; before going today, I knew nothing about the cartoonist himself -- which was always Watterson's intention -- so, some point of me held on for awhile, thinking that we would hear him speak *a little bit*, you know, as long as we were patient. No dice!  Excerpts from a graduation speech Bill Watterson made at Kenyon College is a nice chaser if the movie left you curious to hear more words (slightly more directly) from the cartoonist's mouth. He talks about not selling out, the importance of quality versus mind-numbing relaxation, following your own happiness/interest instead of answering societal expectations:

"If you indulge your natural curiosity and retain a sense of fun in new experience, I think you’ll find it functions as a sort of shock absorber for the bumpy road ahead."

Meanwhile, it's a quiet afternoon at Crazy Wisdom Tearoom. The incense from downstairs makes my eyes a bit achey, but the black coconut tea is lovely. The main counter person wants to talk about polyamory with coworkers and friends who happen through. "Is it just societal conditioning that you're supposed to be with one person that explains my discomfort? ...I don't know. But then, a couple days after he brought it up, he said *he* was doubting it." Some offer anecdotes, other theorize. Barring the nice smokeless atmosphere, better sound system and lower angst level, I could be sitting in the Bridge Lounge of ole Hampshire College...

Probably time for me to head home and finally determine why my lawnmower won't work: this is my bargain -- try new gas, attempt a new spark plug and THEN I can transfer another design. That's the deal.

Initial inking, from Wednesday night:

Inked block, with paper layered on top.

Printmaking Weekend: Now, with More Rabbits!

I should probably dispense with the weekends have been BUSY!! and just get down to it, eh? Last weekend's seeming wealth of *two* scheduled studio days were foiled by: myself, some needed weekend work hours, and my headlights, which had mysteriously ceased to work the preceding Friday...

"Sounds like a blown fuse. Just replace it," advised a friend from work.

"You wouldn't take it in?"

"What? NO. Just get your owner's manual, find the fuses, take 'em out and pop the others back in~"

"But you think *I* could do that--"

His eyes bugged out, as they do, when the other person is obviously being ridiculous. "YES: It's SO. EASY." He had tried to get me to take a beginner's car maintenance class, which was a tremendously practical idea, but four hours claimed every Sunday? Seemed punitive.

Back at home, I girded myself with the manual and my little flashlight. PiC*, who seems to possess the same degree of fixitness as I do, texted: "Is he crazy? Just take it somewhere. There must be a gas station or mechanic nearby."

*Partner in Crime, shorten to Crime? 

Meanwhile, my learned more fixity neighbor pulled out my [perfectly fine] fuses --with his needle-nosed pliers. "It would be easier if I had a diagram of your circuitry." He floated several possibilities, all of which were over my head. Mechanic it was. I gave up quite easily and started watching Hysteria  (7.2/10.0 IMHO). About half an hour into the movie, my neighbor calls (who, if you're a regular reader, may recall him as the mocking-but-helpful lawn mower introducer): "Listen, I've been reading some Subaru forums and I think I may have an easy work-around..." Which sounded promising, given the speaker, but for the part that follows you can simply envision part of a flow chart: arrow to -- > Did the fix work? ---> No. --> Take it to a mechanic. And so it went, but not before the two-afternoon studio weekend, wherein I barely got through the annoying initial nothing-is-printing-well part before it was OMG it's almost dark, and country roads! Flee! As I drove, kind people periodically blinded me by flashing their headlights into my face. Yep, got it! thanks! Though oddly, it seemed like a less caring world when I'd pass a string of cars, none of whom cared enough to blind me.
 
Before I drove out initially I got a curious voice mail from Maestra, warning me that there was a rabbit in the studio. Don't you wish more warnings fell along those lines? But they don't. Rarely are we cautioned against the presence of chipmunks, lavender meringues, baby hedgehogs, no.

The bunny was waiting, as promised. He seemed a bit anxious because of my presence, but he may have only been going about his normal bunny business. Sudden bounding hops across his small space,  continuous paper shredding, bar gnawing. nose wiggling.

"It's cool, bunny. I'm just inking some blocks, 

 

nothing scary"

I talked with him more than I should say, as immediately after I first inked my block, it became apparent that more wood strips had defected from its surface -- and I had to cool my heels, waiting for wood glue to dry.

Bunny: "Here's me, not caring."

"If I could get farther away from you, I would."

Bar good, glue slow.

 

 

Decided to try out some different colored papers this time around

was undecided...

...But fancied the line detail lent by the "linen" paper finish

I also tried an unlined mustardy mulberry color (called "Curry" at Hollander's)

As usual, I printed most on white paper.

What's wrong with this picture?

Between the first weekend and last Sunday, even MORE wood defected! Not quite sure why I have had SO much block deterioration early on, but at this point, I'm just rolling with it. RE: the change at left, at least it's a clean absence. I fear gluing would only produce a muddied new variation. Obviously, I was going for the French spelling...

At the end of this Sunday, I actually had a productive bout: 46 prints

Busy Bunny day. Cardboard box mauling. Ardent love to Stuffed Friend.

There's a New Design in Town. And It Has Utensils.

First, it seems only appropriate to acknowledge Memorial Day. I'm not walking through a cemetery or playing taps with my bugle. I love the country I was born to and live in; and certainly hope that my life somehow improves other people's lives. But I have never experienced a call to serve my country in such a deep way that I would find myself in a war torn landscape, knowing I could be maimed or killed. I don't know what that is. I am grateful to those who have felt this call, and have sacrificed themselves in this way.

One of my favorite metaphors about loss that I have ever encountered is from Laurie Anderson's "World Without End" -- it begins in an obvious fashion, but ends profoundly:

"When my father died we put him in the ground. 
When my father died it was like a whole library Had burned down."

All those past gems of knowledge and future experiences, nullified. So. I guess that's what I tend to think of, on a day like this. The families and loved ones, who have/and are experiencing this. The servicemen and women who have been lost.

***
The Design that Wasn't

Really no good segue way here, so I'll just get on with it. Remember that Grimm's Call to Artists? That I was so excited about?...I know, it's been awhile. It's not that I haven't done anything, but I have yet to find my new groove in the evenings, with the new job. Soooo many things have gone by the wayside (hopefully only temporarily). Recent text from dear friend:

Hey you alive? Or just not talking to me :p

That kind of says it all. Yes, alive. Yes, talking to you, just wiped out.

So. I have made slow progress on the White Snake design (What? You don't have this obscure tale memorized? Read a version here).

I got a little over-ambitious. But RAWTHER focused on it. Apparently, part of me was focusing on a more classic approach to it, even as another part wanted to do more of a sideways take. No matter to the latter: I was soon caught up in making repetitive leaf patterns and snake scales.

Behold, some snaps:

So, as you can see, there was a fair amount for me to obsess over. Not edgy, too classic, too large! But noooo, it will be so cool, once it is carved and hanging, with a bit of hand-coloring! A good testament to a weird classic! Scales all over too busy, not enough apples, too many apples. Overly busy, said Ginger, lacking a central focus. And snakes have scales all over, not just in patches. What's the deal with his super long arm, anyway? Hmm, hmmm, hmm. I stalked back and forth past my dining room table, drawing and erasing repeatedly. I periodically worried over the amount of carving (design size 30"x 16"), then set that aside. Finally ordered the woodblock Sunday before last.

And then, this past Friday, reality belatedly hit. Riding along from dinner at One-Eyed Betty's (burger *great*, maple-bacon doughnuts a sad, yeasty undercooked disappointment: stick with Washtenaw Dairy maple glazed, and serve up your own side of bacon.) and a showing of "Dark Shadows" (also lackluster, though as with any Burton flick, visually fun). Compatriot drove, I stared out the window and suddenly realized that if I didn't get the woodblock for another week (as predicted), I'd have 2 1/2 weeks tops to carve and print a design that I'd normally allow myself a couple months for. Seriously, after all the work so far, would I REALLY not have something to submit? Did. Not. Compute. But! But! But! No...truly not realistic.

"But would this be a design you'd carve even if it wouldn't be for this exhibit?"

A fair question from Comp, though one I didn't want to touch. Yes! No! Definitely Yes! ...Arrrrrgh. So, this Memorial weekend brought lots of agonized creative hustling on my part. Lots of gear shifting and examining from new angles, etc. etc. But! After two solid days of wearing my pencils down to nubbins, it seems I (potentially) have a different solution. Three of them, to be exact. ooOOo, a *triptych*, how fancy! Still lots of work, but I have the blocks already. So we shall see. I'll (hopefully) keep you updated.

Off to fumigate myself with lacquer thinner and transfer the first design...

Best to Everyone, on this Memorial Day!