Dedicated to sifting through the detritus accumulated in my studio life, Studio Debris
It's a rainy, slow Sunday, made ever more so by the brakes of waiting; a delivery appointment for our long coveted Tempurpedic bed scheduled to arrive between 1pm-5pm. With our doors removed from their hinges and furniture carefully pushed aside, there is nothing more to do except stew in anticipation.
Time for a good read, and while in house-mode, an errant pile of documents reveals a treasure: my long-deceased grandfather's hand-written auto-biography, "Poor Little Me", penned politely in March of 1926, when he was just fourteen years old. Having re-read it for the first time since my own adolescence, I finally realize its true value. I never knew Grandpa Henry, he died when my own father was only 10 years old.
It's a sweet, genuine read, a true time-capsule, revealing a boy who aspired to become a mechanical engineer or draftsman; with a special ambition to design airplane engines in what he predicted to be known as "the motor age". I have decided I should at least make an attempt to adapt the carefully pencilled script into an illustrated book format. After all, Henry wondered aloud whether "an autobiography of a fourteen year old boy would sell as well [as that] of one of our famous men?"
Yesterday wrapped as a "less-than-stellar" studio day for me; one of those days where every project I touched turned to dust between my fingers. Rather than torching my studio and giving up art forever, I chose to boost my morale by watching this video from Aardman Animations Ltd.
In times like these, I find that a good cartoon is usually the best remedy.
It has been a light week for writing, due to the fact that I have had family in town and therefore the rare chance to show people around Providence, which I still feel that I am getting to know myself as a relatively new Boston transplant.
Locals may have seen me dragging my eerily resemblant mother and aunt down Thayer and Benefit streets (note: the latter relative = me in 20 years, the former = me in 30 years), with a very unenthusiastic 11-year old cousin in tow. It isn't family day without a stop at the gift shop, so after a brief stint at the RISD Museum to skim the concise and impressive Styrofoam and Evo/Revo shows, we hit up RISD Works.
I wasn't planning on any purchases, but my intrepid mother scouted out the sole copy of Dirty Wow Wow and other love stories, by Cheryl and Jeffrey Katz. I had to treat myself to this sweet, little hard-cover book, which documents in neutral, portrait-style photography the well-loved, tattered and often humorously repaired softies and blankies of childhood in their "sunset years". With short, fable-like biographical essays accompanying each portrait, I find this collection in pleasing contrast to my "Lost and Found" cell-phone photo documentary series of abandoned softies.
Oh, and the dust-jacket cover art features the retro-pup "Le Mutt" (in this edition knighted "Rover" by his small person).
I was once the proud owner of both a "Le Mutt" and his paramour, "Fi-Fi La Femme" back in the good 'ol early 1980's. I recall that "Le Mutt" had a very weak ear, but that didn't stop me from spinning him by it like a windmill until it came off, catapulting the poor canine into outer space.
I'm not sure why Valentine's Day brings out the evil in me. After all, I'm safely married off, so I can no longer play the "I'm so sad/lonely/bitter/ *locked in my house because the doorknob on my front door just broke off in my hand" card.
In any case, let's get back to the evil. I have a special appreciation for evil, especially when disguised within otherwise innocent looking artwork. And so, when I came across today's Design*Sponge post on Wilhelm Staehle's "Silhouette Masterpiece Theatre" (via jared and eryn’s site), I clapped my little hands with evil glee, and decided to show them some evil blog love. I'm particularly fond of these:
*One Valentine's Day, not so very long ago, I was celebrating a week-old traumatic horrorshow breakup. To cheer me up, my wise girlfriends had plans to take me out for single, bitter drinks and laughs at the expense of others. I pulled my tearstained face off of the floor, put on a breakup revenge outfit, and headed for the door...only to find that I was locked inside my apartment as the faceted crystal doorknob rolled uselessly in my hand. To make a long story short (too late), I had to call my landlord, at home, on Valentine's Day evening, and plea with him to release me from my lonely, bitter trap. He promised to send over the live-in super. Meanwhile, I called my dad, who instructed me in detail how to fiddle with the errant doorknob. After several minutes of fiddling, I triumphantly wrenched open the door to my freedom...only to find Sherrod, my live-in super (a six-foot-five bodyguard type with no sense of humor) hulking on the other side wearing a bright red leather suit with matching fedora. Apparantly, I had interrupted his hot Valentine's Day date with the lady. Not happy, was he...sorry Sherrod! I miss you!