perturbation

I find myself troubled by the recent phenomena of the "altered book." Part of it -- maybe all of it -- is because I still feel that the book is something close to a sacred object. When I was a kid, a book was something to cherish. I washed my hands before reading, had certain times and places for reading (NOT at the table, please!), kept it in stored in a safe place, used a special light for reading. It was a ritual of respect, respect for the physical object of the book as much as for the content.

Now desecrating the book is de rigueur. I can't wrap my mind around it. I have tried it -- I tore a page from an out-of-date atlas and did some cut stencils, like so:

but I'm having a really hard time wrapping my mind around this particular kind of repurposing. Every time I see it in a magazine or suchlike, I recoil in distaste and a kind of horror. And having tried it hasn't ameliorated the feeling. (I won't be doing it again.) It feels a little too Fahrenheit 451 -- the willful destruction of the work and thoughts of others, the eradication of history, the painting over and massive whiting-out of ideas. It feels too arrogant -- your work is as nothing except a spur to my work. Bratty kids trampling the garden for the joy of destruction, with no thought to the loss of the necessary harvest. It just feels wrong.

Maybe I protest too much. I am all in favor of reusing and repurposing trash into treasure . . . but-but-but . . . 'Green' be damned. In this time when the book is an empire in decline, it troubles me that its glories are so far denigrated that the book is truly becoming only worth the paper it's printed on.

play time: marbling

One of my ether buddies, Vivian Blackburn, has a post about marbling. She didn't know about the ink-on-shaving-cream method, so here's a quick overview, sans step-by-step pics, but with a few 'results' pics (way below). If I tried to shoot this, I'd never get the post up, but the process is easy to understand in words and there are tons of websites with pictures (search for "marbling shaving cream" if this explanation baffles). And do link over to Vivian's site, her work is entrancing.

Basically you use shaving cream rather than water as the suspension for the ink. IMPORTANT: Get unscented foam, or the mildest scent you can find. When I learned this, my teacher (Jane Davila, whom I believe I may have mentioned here before...) wasn't able to get unscented and by the end of the session we were all a little woozy from the menthol. Of course, if you're inspired whilst woozy from menthol, have at it. Who am I to throw stones...?

You'll need:
-Paper or fabric (hereafter: p/f)
NOTE: the fabric should be washed to remove the sizing, and pressed to remove wrinklies
-A shallow roasting pan (disposable aluminum is fine)
It should be long and wide, but need not be especially deep (2 in./5 cm is enough)
-A can of shaving cream
-Inks in various colors
In class we used Tsukineko ink, but I've read it's possible to use thinned down acrylic paint and even food coloring -- essentially, any coloring agent that will rest on top of the foam
-Bamboo skewers to drip the ink and swirl it around; one for each color and some clean ones for the swirling
-A stiff card to smooth the foam
(Finally, a use for those "Apply Now! You've been PRE-approved!!" bank and credit cards that flood your mail box)
-The usual spread of newspaper and paper towels to keep things tidy
-A place to leave the marbled p/f to dry

Okay, all set, then it just goes like this:
1. Squirt enough of the shaving cream into the roasting pan to fill it about 1 in./3 cm deep.
2. Use the stiff card to smooth the surface of the cream.
3. Dip a skewer into the ink and scatter drips over the surface of the cream.
NOTE: the ink doesn't bloom across the surface the way it will on water, so you'll need a lot of drips if you want a lot of coverage
4. Lightly and quickly draw a clean bamboo skewer through the foam to pull the inks into lines and swirls.
NOTE: It is easy to overwork this step, especially if you have several colors of ink resting on the foam. Two passes seem to be enough -- for example, once across the whole length, then once across the whole width or on one diagonal.
5. Place the p/f on the surface of inky foam. Pat gently all around to ensure contact over the whole surface.
6. Lift off the p/f. Shaving cream will cling to its surface, do not panic. Scrape the cream away with the stiff card.
NOTE: Clean the card after each scrape by wiping it on newspaper or some such. This prevents transferring the ink in the foam to other parts of the p/f while scraping.
7. That's it. Put the p/f somewhere to dry.

If you want to do more sheets, scrape the top of the foam clean, or add more foam and scrape it smooth, then drip new ink, and repeat the steps from there.

If you've used acrylic or water-based inks or paints, everything can be safely washed up in the sink. If you haven't, you're on your own for disposal; my knowledge of these other things is severely limited and my experience with them even more so.

Almost all of the ink comes off in the first pull, so you probably won't get more than one very ghostly image if you press another p/f sheet down, but you can smooth some of the residual ink over the surface and get some background color from the first inking.

You don't get the beautiful amorphous swooshy swirls like you do on a liquid suspension but it does a credible job of imitating the fan-like patterns on Florentine endpapers. Like so:
(sorry they're blurry, my scanner is cranky about fabric)

This (above) also has some gold fabric paint spattered o'er the top.

This is the first one I did (above). On the second one (below) you can see a little of of the purple and yellowish residue that I left on the foam to see what would happen.
I think when I do this again I won't be quite so timid about the p/f and will try a printed or otherwise colored fabric rather than my stalwart workaday white muslin.

you make me blush

Seriously, dudes, as Shakespeare had some character or another declare in one play or another (I think Midsummer): I am amazed and know not what to say.

and also (this from 12th Night, most definitely 12th Night): I can no other answer make but thanks, and thanks, and ever thanks.

But also, re Nellie's Picasa suggestion -- ooh, new technology, I'm not sure I'm up to it. It took several months of urging from my buddy Jane (Davila) to push me into a blog in the first place. (Who knew it would be so much fun? pas moi). Learning to upload images from my camera took about 4 months and much bluing of the air. Trying to get Howard's pictures of the BW2R from the disk actually required screaming and crying and pounding on the computer with my fists until a panel broke off and released drive D (or maybe E -- how you can tell?) and the disk with the pictures on it so I could take it to my job and use the computer there to email the images to myself so I could transfer them from the email to the blog because for some reason none of the 3 or 4 image programs that have erupted on my computer would acknowledge that there was a disk in that drive. Or that there was a drive. Or so it seemed. I'm not sure I have the emotional strength to assay more software just now. But now that I know what Picasa is (not Spanish for house of pi) maybe I'll inch toward that as well.

I haven't always been a Luddite. Honest. I just let too much technology go by whilst not having a day job and catching up is daunting.

ahoy

I was at a family gathering this weekend -- a bittersweet (but mostly the sweet bit) thing. Started home yesterday (Saturday) in the late afternoon, blew a tire on the highway, and because my spare is one of those balloonlike temporary tires and because home was three times further away than is recommended that you travel on one of those things, I spent the night at a Holiday Inn near Trenton.

In the morning, whilst waiting for New Jersey to open -- or at least for a fix-a-flat place near Trenton to open, I pulled out my trusty Penguin edition of Moby Dick and made some new sketches. Whenever I mention this series, people ask "Are you going to do a panel for each chapter?" And I mention that "there are 136 chapters" and that's usually the end of that. But I've been in the "why not?" mode for a while, so I thought: why not 136 (or so) images? what's the problem? You're only a month behind on your self-imposed one-a-day project... So I'll see. I thought I'd continue reading and noting and see what I see.

Meanwhile, here's the first batch, with the panel title, the source chapter, and a quotation from the text set after the image. These are all 12 inches square. The BW2R is part of the series (for the last chapter: Epilogue) and is approximately 30 in. x 60 in.
(photos by Dana Buckley)
Ahab
from Chapter 28, Ahab
Threading its way out from among his grey hairs, and continuing right down one side of his tawny scorched face and neck, till it disappeared in his clothing, you saw a slender rod-like mark, lividly whitish. It resembled that perpendicular seam sometimes made in the straight, lofty trunk of a great tree, when the upper lightning tearingly darts down it, and without wrenching a single twig, peels and grooves out the bark from top to bottom, ere running off into the soil, leaving the tree still greenly alive, but branded. (page 134)

Baleen
from Chapter 75, The Right Whale's Head
In old times, there seem to have prevailed the most curious fancies concerning these blinds. One voyager in Purchas calls them the wondrous “whiskers” inside of the whale’s mouth; another, “hog’s bristles;” a third old gentleman in Hackluyt uses the following elegant language: “There are about two hundred and fifty fins growing on each side of his upper chop, which arch over his tongue on each side of his mouth.” (page 365-66)

Duodecimo
from Chapter 32, Cetology
First: According to magnitude I divide the whales into three primary BOOKS (subdivisible into CHAPTERS), and these shall comprehend them all, both large and small. (page 148)

Sharks
from Chapter 67, Cutting In
You would have thought we were offering up ten thousand red oxen to the sea gods. (page 130)

The Pequod
from Chapter 16, The Ship
All round, her unpanelled, open bulwarks were garnished like one continuous jaw, with the long sharp teeth of the sperm whale, inserted there for pins. To fasten her old hempen thews and tendons to. (page 78)

Off the hook

My long-winded and not-tres-amusing part deux of my 'becoming an artist after being in Vermont and deciding to submit work to the Major Show and Venue ' story can be summed up as:
1. got home
2. procrastinated
3. had drainpipe from the second-floor bathtub spring a leak that necessitated stripping the first floor bathroom to the studs and joists and spraying-spraying-spraying diluted bleach all over everything until all the mold died, then having new walls and ceiling installed
4. procrastinated
5. made an appointment with a Professional Photographer
6. procrastinated
7. came up with a sketch and did a little sewing
8. stepped out of my own shower, flipped my wet hair back, and severely sprained my neck
9. procrastinated, but felt justified because of the Pain
10-13. procrastinated
14. panicked
15. realized this panel is part of series (based on Moby Dick) that I've had underway for a while, and saw how I could finish it
15a. finished it
15b. went to the photographer's, managing to get lost only once en route (which is a record for me, really)
16. shipped -- as instructed -- via post, the disk to the stern but ultimately kindly Quilt National folks (aka the major show and venue). felt deeply relieved and uncharacteristically serene
17. was nearly f**cked by the post office who, it seemed, had misdelivered the package. Wept. In public. And I'm not a crier. Decided Never Again to use the USPS for anything but bill payment, if that
18. was relieved to learn that the package was, in fact, delivered -- slightly in advance of the deadline
19. waited, stalled on all other fronts, from then 'til now to see whether the angst was worth it
20. learned, yesterday, that my submission was declined for further review, felt deeply relieved, and realized

YES
IT WAS ALL WORTH IT

I never seriously expected to be asked to stay up late with the big kids, my goal is always 'show up and see what happens.' And I'm sincerely happy about simply seeing it through. (Persistence has never been my long suit.) It was weirdly fun, with very much an air of a great adventure, and I may someday Do It Again. But I am greatly relieved to be released from Waiting to Hear, surprised to find out that that's mostly what I was doing all month (August 30 to Sept 29), and looking forward to getting going again on the various things that were stalled during all the with-bated-breath time. This must be what it's like to be Rip Van Winkle and wake up after a long sleep.

Meanwhile . . . here's the BW2R. I'm happy with it. That's the main thing, maybe the only thing.
(Photos by Howard Goodman)

and in detail:

hard to find good help

This is Beau.
Beau showed up in the yard one day, hunkered and screaming. The screaming misled me into thinking "This is one mean junkyard dog of a cat." But Beau was mostly terrified and, when translated, the screaming went something like Pleaeaeaeaeaeaeaeaeassssssssssssssssse Hellllllllllllllllllllllp Meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee. Now Beau is a housecat. You may be able to tell from his expression that he was still a little uncertain of What Just Happened.

Today Beau is helping me clean.

His role (self-appointed) is to sit in the middle of the carpet and make sure it doesn't get away. The carpet, of, course, is smack inthe middle of the path between the two main areas I hoped to Make Neat.

Cats are a great mystery.

traveling light

This is the story of How I Became an Artist While Staring at the Walls in Vermont, Persisting Through a Plumbing Situation and a Neck Sprain, and Surviving the Eternal Vagaries of the Vile and Evil USPS.

I had something like an idea inspired by the Elements theme for the Journal quilts -- use copper armature mesh as the fire element and overlay panels for the other elements (which, for the non-alchemical among us, are air, water, earth). Further inspired by Virginia Spiegel's wonderful Boundary Waters series, I wanted to do something BIG, bigger than my usual 12-inch squares and way bigger than the postcards I've been churning out. Also floating in the back of my mind was: "Maybe do something for Quilt National. The deadline is Sept 5, so I have a whole month to throw something together." So I loaded up the car with the barest of necessities and headed north from the Bronx. This is the array of my rigorously pared down supplies:

Yes, everything in the green bags, in the copier-paper boxes, and in between is mine. I know what you're thinking -- she must have a really small car. . .
And because you never know when you might need to make a little sketch of something:
And since Great River bills itself as an arts institute and may or may not know from fabric, I brought the iron and ironing board in addition to the traveling sewing machine. And, oh yes, I just happened to have a case of Poland Spring in the trunk, so I brought that too. (Well, really -- do you drink the local water when you're on vacation, or at home?)
Happily it was a b-i-g room, maybe 45 feet by 45 feet. All for me. I pinned this up on the wall --
Inspiring, no?
Then sat down and stared at it and waited to think of something . . .
anything, really . . .
waited . . . . . .
waited some more. . . . . . . . . .
And that great industriousness consumed most of Friday afternoon. I decided I needed food. And maybe some dopamine. Foraged, came back, and thought: This is not going anywhere. Maybe color would help? I pulled some stuff out of the bags and made stacks:Fooled about with some combinations and then thought ... well, if you're going to go for color, then go for color: very fiery, no? and maybe somewhat airy and deep-water-ish on top? maybe the swirly marbleized orange fabric rather than the armature wire? I got this far and could go no further.

Bedded down at the inn, reduced to watching the Red Sox game --
(god help me --did I mention I'm from the Bronx? the place with the team that inspired the T-shirt slogan "If it's called the World Series, how come it's always played in the Bronx?" . . . but I digress . . .)
--feeling sad and agitated, and having second thoughts that verged too close to the yips. I said to myself: "Self, white is your favorite color. Maybe go back to the white idea." Okay.

Saturday morning, back at the Institute, looked at the orange-purple-aqua array and thought: Holy mother of god, what was I thinking? And stared at the wall. Remember the wall? Considered crying. Reminded myself that crying is something I can do at home for free. Packed away the orange-aqua-purple array and the stacks o' miscellany. Covered a table with the one piece of batting I brought, measured out a couple lengths of muslin to cover the length (5 feet-ish) and width (2 feet-ish) and started tearing the muslin into strips roughly an inch-and-a-half wide. Wove the strips together into a big piece of fabric. This took longer than expected and, by itself, is of little or no interest to interested bystanders. Besides, I didn't take a picture.

Skipping ahead to late Saturday evening when the Good Self-esteem Fairies swarmed in, trailing clouds of confidence and enthusiasm. Next door to the Institute is a radio station. A local theater group (displaced from Brooklyn and longing for home, i.e., New York) came in to do a promo and I ran into the voluble playwright, the artistic director, and two very large dogs in the lobby. Conversation ensued, the playwright wanted to see what I was doing, and then somehow the costumer and someone else from the company had joined in. I said "It's not much to see -- white strips of fabric woven together" But they bustled in, looked at everything, exclaimed happily over gelatin plate prints from Rayna Gilman's class that were still scattered around, and Discussed Seriously what I might do with the big white woven rectangle (BW2R). Turns out the playwright got his MFA at the same school I did, and somehow my undergraduate theater degree also came up in conversation. Then they all bustled back over to the door, the playwright turned and said: "Look at at all the things you do. You're a Real Artist" and then -- poof! -- they were gone.

Okay. That was over-stimulating. But even before being spangled with complimentary pixie-dust, I thought I had Something That Might Be Something, so I ironed the BW2R to some fusible Pellon and called it a night. In the morning, with variegated white-to-mid-gray rayon thread, I machine stitched parallel vertical lines across the width to secure the sections that weren't in contact with the fusible, packed up, and came home.

And now this post is more than Long Enough, so here endeth the reading for today. The chapter in which Melanie Rushes to the Deadline Whilst Beating Back All Odds Against It will resume in a day or so.