A large-scale woodcut print, inspired by my grandmother Jolene. I wished to portray the sense of confusion and social distortion my grandmother often experiences due to her hearing loss, paired with the youthful sensibility of a lost girlhood.
There seems to be so little ahead of me now. At once eager to rise above the present, I fear a future of circles, and wonder if I will never escape the cycles. I see the world through the eyes of my grandmother, and am filled with an unbearable weight of passing time and losing time and leaving time behind.
This lovely little box is everything I've ever wanted from a recipe tin. It's too good to be true, really. Such fantastic reds and yellows, and bits of greens and blues. Special thanks to Kindra for the loan, and for the recipes enclosed.
SEE Malcolm Gladwell explain the existence of zesty pickles, among other things, and why they make us happy.
READ his recent profile in NyMag, wherein he discusses his latest book, Outliers:
"Great people aren't so great. Their own greatness is not the salient fact about them. It's the kind of fortunate mix of opportunities they've been given..."
It is people like this man that brighten the dead-brained nights of semester's approaching end. I fear that too much doing has made me forget how to think, and I plow forward towards the glow at the end of the corridor, dreaming of an afternoon without agenda, lying on the carpet, wrapped up in a flurry of words.
Today I wish to escape to this place. I'll imagine I'm bouncing amongst blossoms, staring at the sunlight through the branches of le petit tree. From Le Petit Arbre, par Thelma Volckman Delbesse, illustré par Sylvie Selig.
Dear Katelyn Farstad, Thank you leaving such a terrifically tasteful little storage device in my studio today. You said it reminded you of me, and I think to myself, "Hmmm...Being synonymous with hot pink and gemstones and fencing in hot pants isn't such a bad thing in the grand scheme of things...in fact its pretty rad." So thank you, Kate, for being crafty and uplifting and inspirational and massively multi-talented. And thanks also for thinking of me––it means multitudes. Sincerely yours, TTYL, Aimee.
when i awoke early yesterday morn, i wished to myself for it to be appropriate to wear long-john sets in public. ice now coats the grass like a ganache of glass, and as i settle into the momentum of a sleeplessness, i embrace the chill of this new season, mindful of the fact that it is this severity of seasons that suppresses the weaknesses, paradoxically sugar-coating the blows.
or, perhaps, it simply reminds me that i hold in my possession my own coat of armor, the tools of survival to make it through to the spring.
Daily meditation books from the late 19th and early 20th centuries. The bindings are dry and crumbling, but the words inside have yet to fade. Such a beautiful display of decay.
My life as of late has played out like a tragedy of Shakespearean absurdity, filled with errors and exits overlapped by acts of illness and incompetence. The curtains rise and all is in place, the curtains fall and chaos seizes all. Cues are forgotten, understudies have moved on, and a spotlight of assumptions and internalized accusations forever burns the pinholes in my eyes. And so I've come to realize the play is not the thing, and I've given up on catching, the conscience of a king.
But as the curtain rises once again, I will try my best to make it through to the end.
The explosion of a boiled egg gives rise to contemplations on form-making, as I sit in the sunlight daydreaming of the endless possibilities of the egg. I would very much like to make something out of this–a bowl, a chair, an overstuffed thing?
The Mr & Mrs Jones collection, by Polly George. Whimsical forms, with function.
"Form follows function––that has been misunderstood. Form and function should be one, joined in a spiritual union."-Frank Lloyd Wright